uw'.nrrr,.- 




ROBF BURNS & MANSE TUNNOCK the HOSTESS at aiAUCHONE. 



TlHI K 



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SIB AND rjg^g 







A,^ , FRIAJtS-CATRSE HERMRTAGE. , 






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^.^uWUh«l by KJ^cjunA- I£i»hhi^i8i6. 



THE 



WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS; 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS, 



TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 



SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF 



THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BALTIMORE, 

PUBLISHED BY F. LUCAS, JUN. AND J. GUSHING. 

G. Palmer, printer. 

1816. 



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^^^^^^. 



V'' 



49641 



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^ TO / / / 



CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE, 



OP 



/O 



THE ROYAL NAVY. 



"WHEN you were stationed on our coast about 
twelve years ago, you first recommended to my 
particular notice the peems of the Ayrshire plough- 
man, whose works, published for the benefit of his 
widow and children, 1 now present to you. In a 
distant region of the world, whither the service of 
your country has carried you, you will, I know, re- 
ceive with kindness this proof of my regard ; not, 
perhaps, without som« surprise on finding that I 
have been engaged in editing these volumes, nor 
without some curiosity to know how I was qualifi- 
ed for such an undertaking. These points I will 
briefly explain. 

Hiiving occasion to make an excursion to the 
county of Dumfries, in the summer of 1792, I had 
there an opportunity of seeing and of conversing 
with Burns. It has been my fortune to know 
some men of high reputation in literature, as well 
as in public life ; but never to meet any one, who, 
in the course of a single interview, communicated 
to me so strong an impression of the force and ver- 
satility of his talents. After this I read the poems 
then published with greater interest and attention, 
and with a full conviction that, extraordinary as 
they are, they afford but an inadequate proof df 
the powers of their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards Burns terminated his ca- 
reer. Among those whom the charms of his ge- 
nius had attached to him, was one with wliom I 
have been bound in the ties of friendship from 
early life— Mr. John Syme, of Ryedale. This 
gentleman, after the death of Burns, promoted 
with the utmost zeal a subscription for the sup- 
port of the widow and children, to which their re- 
lief froin inuuediate disti*ess is to be ascribed; 
and in conjunction with other friends of this 
virtuous and destitute family, he projected the 
publication of these volumes for their benefit, by 
which the return of want might be prevented or 
prolonged. 

To this last undertaking an editor and biogra- 
pher was wanting, and Mr. Syme's modesty op- 
posed a barrier to his assuming an office, for 
which he was in other respects peculiarl) qualified. 
On this subject he consulted nie ; and, with the 
hope of surmounting his objections, I offered him 
my assistance, but in vain. Endeavours were used 



to procure an editor in other quarters •witliout 
effect. The task was beset with considerable dif- 
ficulties, and men of established reputation natu« 
rally declined an undertaking, to the performance 
of which, it was scax'cely to be hoped, that general 
approbation could be obtained by any exertion of 
judgment or temper. 

To such an office my place of residence, my 
accustomed studies, and my occupations, were 
certainly little suited ; but the partialitj of Mr. 
Syme thought me in other respects not unquali- 
fied ; and his solicitations, joined to those of our 
excellent friend and relation Mrs. Dunlop, and ot* 
other friends of the fauiily of the poet, I have not 
been able to resist. To remove difficulties which 
would otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr. 
Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns made a journey to 
Liverpool, where they explained and arranged the 
manuscripts, and selected such as seemed worthy 
of the press. From this visit I derived a degree 
of pleasure which has compensated much of my 
labour. I had the satisfaction of renewing my 
personal intercourse with a much valued friend, 
and of forming an acquaintance with a inan, 
closely allied to Burns in calents as well as in 
blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of vir- 
tue will not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been de- 
layed by obstacles which shese gentlemen could 
neitlier remove nor foresee, and which it would 
be tedious to enumerate. At length the task is 
finished. If the part which I have taken shall 
serve the interests of the family, and receive the 
approbation of good uien, I shall have my recoui- 
pense. The errors into which I have fallen, are 
not I hope very important, and they will be easily 
accounted for by those who know the circum- 
stances under which this undertaking has been 
performed, Generous minds will receive the post- 
humous works of Burns with candour, and even 
partiality, as the reuiains of an unfortunate man 
of genius, published for the benefit of his family 
—as the stay of the widow and the hope of the 
fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics 
are omitted in the writings, and avoided in the life 
of Burns, tbat hare a tead«Bey t« aw«k« tiia ani- , 



DEDICATION. 



mosity of party. In perusing the following vo- 
lumes no offence will be received, except by those 
to whom even the natural erect aspect of genius 
is oifensive ; characters that will scarcely be found 
among those who are educated to the profession 
of arms. Such men do not court situations of 
danger, or tread in the paths of glory. They will 
not be found in your service, which, in our own 
days, emulates on another element the superior 
fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or of the Ro- 
man legion, and which has lately made the shores 
of Europe and of Africa resound with the shouts of 
victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from 
the Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably 
by one who stands in the foremost rank of this no- 



ble service, and who deserves his station. On the 
lajid or on the sea, I know no man more capable of 
Judging of the character or of the writings of this 
original genius. Homer, and Shakspeare. and Os- 
sian, cannot always occupy your leisure. These 
volumes may sometimes engage your attention, 
while the steady breezes of the tropics swell your 
sails, and in another quarter of the earth charm 
you with the strains of nature, or awake in your 
memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer me 
to hope that they may sometimes recall to your 
mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids 
you— most affectionately— adieu ! 

J. CURRIE. 
Liverpool^ ist May, 1800. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



IF the editor has not mentioned by name the 
various persons who subscribed to the former edi- 
tion, or who promoted the subscription fof the 
support of the widow and children of Burns, this 
has arisen from his not being in possession of the 
necessary documents. Mr. Alexander Cunningham 
ought, however, to have been more particularly 
disting^uished. He was indefatigably zealous in 



promoting the interest of the widow and her chil- 
dren, at a period when such services were highly 
important, and not a little difficult. The editor 
is happy in an opportunity of doing this j ustice, 
tardy and imperfect though it be, to an old friend, 
of the generous qualities of whose heart he retains , 
a just and lasting impression. 



CONSENTS. 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS ON THE CHA- 
RACTER AND CONDITION OF THE 
SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

Page 
Effects of the legal establishment of parochi- 
al schools— of the church establishmejit— 
of the absence of poor laws— of the 
Scottish music and national songs— of the 
laws respecting marriage and inconti- 
nence—Observations on the domestic and 
national attachments of the Scotch, 1 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by him- 
self—Narratives on the same subject by 
his brother, and by Mr. Murdoch, of 
London, his teacher— Other particulars of 
Burns while resident in Ayrshire— History 
of Burns while resident in Edinbiirgli, in- 
cludiiig letters to the Editor from Mr, 
Stewart and Dr. Aduir— History of Burns 
while on the farm of Ellisland, in Dum- 



friesshire—History of Bums while resi- 
dent in Dumfries- his last illness— death 
—and character— with general reflections, 

Memoir respecting Burns by a Lady, 

Criticism on tlie AVritings of Burns, includ- 
ing observations on poetry in the Scottish 
dialect, and some remarks on Scottish 
literature, 

Tributary Verses on the D^ath of Burns by 
Mr. Roscoe, 

Appendix, No. I. 

Appendix, No. II. including an extract of a 
Poem addressed to Burns, by Mr. Tel- 
ford, 

Appendix, No. III. Letter from Mr, Gilbert 
Burns to the Editor, approving his Life 
of his Brother ; with observations on the 
elFects of refinement of taste on the la- 
bouring classes of men, 



Pag-e 



CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR. THOMSON AND 
MR. BURNS. 



No. Page 

I, Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns, 
(1792) Desiring the Ba.d to 
furnish verses for some of 
the Scottisli airs, and to re- 
vise former songs, 
II. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising 
assistance, 

III. Mr. T. to Mr. B. sending 

some tunes, 

IV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " The 

Lea Rig," and " Will ye go 
to the Indies, my Mary," 
V. Mr. B. to Mr. T.' with " My 
wife's a winsome wee thing," 
and " O saw ye bounie Les- 
ley," 
VI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " High- 
land Mary," 
VII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, and 
critical observations, 
VIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with an addi- 
tioiinl stanza to " The Lea 
Rig," 
IX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with ' Auld 
Rob Morris," and " Duncau 
erajTj'^ 



91 



91 



92 



92 



93 



94 



95 



95 



No. 
X. 



XI. 



XIIL 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 



Mr. B. to Mr. T. with, " O 
Poortith cauld," &c. and 
" Galla Water," 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Jan. 1793. 
Desires anecdotes on the 
origin of particular songs, 
Tytler of Woodhouselee— 
Pleyel— sends P. Pindar's 
"Lord Gregory." Postscript 
from the Hon. A. Erskine, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. 
Tytler's anecdotes, and 
means to give his own — 
sends his ow n " Lord Gre- 
gory," 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Mary 
Morison," 

Mr. B. to Mr. T, with " Wan- 
dtriiig Willie," 

Mr. B. to Mr. 1'. with " Open 
the door to me. Oh !" 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Jes- 
sie," 

Mr. I . to Mr. B. with a list of 
songs. :uiu " Wandering Wil- 
lie" altered, 



Page 



99 



CONTENTS. 



102 
103 



No. Page 

XVIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " When wild 
war's deadly blast was 
blawn," and •' Meg o' the 
Mill," 101 

XIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of 
Coila— Criticism— Origin of 
" The Lass o' Patie's Mill," 
XX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 
XXI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity 
requisite in a song— One 
poet should not mangle the 
works of another, 
XXII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Farewell 
thou stream that winding 
flows."— Wishes that the na- 
tional music may preserve 
its native features, 
XXIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and 

observations, 
XXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Blythe 

hae 1 been on jo.i hiil," 
XXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with ' O Lo- 
gan, sweetly didst thou 
glide," " O gin my love 
were yon red rose," Stc. 
XXVI. Mr. T. to jMr. B. Enclosing a 

note— Thanks, 
XXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " There 
was a lass and she was fair," 
XXVIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the 
idea of pecuniary recom- 
penle— Remarks on songs, 
XXIX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical ex- 
pression, 
XXX. Mr. B to Mr. T. For Mr. 
Clarke, 
XXXI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Phil- 

lis the fair," 
XXXII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan- 
Drawing from " John An- 
derson my JO," 
XXXIII. Mr. R. to Mr T. with " Had 
I a cave," &c.— Some airs 
common to Scotland and 
Ireland, 
XXXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " By 
Allan stream I chanced to 



No. 
XLL 



XLII. 



lOS 


XLIII. 




XLIV. 




XLV. 


104 




104 


XLVI. 


104 






XLVIL 


105 




106 






XLVIII. 


106 






XLIX. 


107 




107 


L. 


108 




103 




108 


LI. 




LII. 



XXXV. 


Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Whis- 
tle and I'll come to you, my 
lad," and " Awa wi' your 




LIII. 




belles and your beauties," 


109 




XXXVL 


]Mr. B. to Mr. T. with '• Come 
let me take thee to my 




LIV. 




breast," 


no 


LV. 


XXXVIL 


Mr. B. to Mr. T. with"Dain- 




LVI. 




tie Davie," . . - 


111 




XXXVIIL 


Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted 
with the productions of 




LVII. 




Burns's muse. 


111 




XXXIX. 


Mr. B. to Mr. T.with " Bruce 








to his troops at Bannock- 




LVIII. 




burn," 


111 




XL. 


Mr. B. to Mr. T. with ' Be- 








hold the hour, the boat ar- 




LIX. 




rive." 


112 





Mr. T. to Ml-. B. Observa- 
tions on " Bruce to his 
troops," 

Mr. B. to Mr, T. Remarks 
on songs in Mr. T.'s list — 
His own method of forming 
a song — " Thou has left me 
ever, Jamie"—" Where are 
the joys I hae met in the 
morning" — " Auld lang 
syne," 

Mr B. to Mr. T. with a va- 
riation of " Bannock-burn," 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and 
observations 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. On " Ban- 
nock-burn,"— sends " Fair 
Jenny," 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " De- 
ludtd swain, the pleasure" 
—Remarks. 

Mr. B. to ]Mr. T. with " Thine 
am I, my faithful fair" — 
" O condescend, dear charm- 
ing maid"—" The Nightin- 
gale"—" Laura,"— (the three 
last by G. Turnbull) 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehen- 
sions — Thanks, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Hirs- 
band, husband, cease your 
strife," and, '* Wilt thou be 
my dearie," 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. 1794. Me- 
lancholy comparison be- 
tween Burns and Carlini— 
Mr. Allan has begun a 
sketch from the Cotter's 
Satui'day Night, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. 
Allan— ' Banks of Cree," 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in 
France—" Here, where the 
Scottish Muse immortal 
lives," presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry, with a 
copy of Mr. Thomson's 
••ollection, 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not 
expect to hear from Pleyel 
soon, but desires to be pre- 
pared with the po( try, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with "On 
the seas and far away," 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Ca' 
the yowes to the knowes," 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. with •• She 
says she loe's me best of a','' 
— "O let me lii," &C.— Stan- 
za to Dr. Maxwell, 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising 

him to write a Musical 

Drama, 

, Mr. T. to Mr. B. has been ex- 

itming Scottish collections 



Page 



lis 



115 



120 
121 



1^ 



CONTENTS. 



yu 



N». » Page 

—Ritson— Difficult to ohiain 
ancient melodies in their 
original state, 123 

LX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe 
for producing a love-song— 
"Saw ye my Phely"— Re- 
marks and anecdotes— 
" How long and dreary is 
the night''— "Let not wo- 
man e'er complain"—" The 
Lover's morning salute to 
his Mistress"— " The Auld 
Man"—" Keen blows the 
wind o'er Donochthead," in 
a nole, 124 

LXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he 
knew the inspiring Fair 
One— Ritson's historical es- 
say not interesting— Allan 
—Maggie Lawder, 126 

LXII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has begun 
his Anecdotes, &c.— " My 
Chloris, mark how green the 
groves"— Love— " It was the 
charming month of May," 
— " Lassie wi' the lint-white 
locks"— History of the air, 
" Ye banks and braes o' bon- 
nie Doon"— James Miller — 
Clarke—The black keys- 
Instance of the difficulty of 
tracing the origin of ancient 
airs, , 127 

LXIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. with three 

copies of the Scottish Airs, 129 
LXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " O 
Philly, happy be that day"— 
Starting note—" Contented 
■wi' little, and caniie wi' 
mair"-*' Canst thou leave 
me thus, my Katy"— (The 
reply, " Stay my Willie— yet 
believe me,'" in a note)— 
Stock and horn, 129 

LXV. Mr. T. to Mr. B, Praise- 
Desires more songs of the 
humoi*ous cast— Means to 
have a picture from " The 
Soldier's Return," 131 

IXVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with '« My 

Nanie's awa." 132 

LXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. (1795) with 
'• For a' that an' a' that," — 
and " Sweet fa's the eve on 
Crag^e-burn," 132 

LXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, 133 
LXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " O Lassie, 
art thou sleeping yet," and 
the Answer, 133 

LXX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of 

Ecclefechan, 134 

LXXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, 134 

LXXII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Address to 



No. Page 

the Wood-lark"— "On Chlo- 
ris being ill"—" Their groves 
o' sweet myrtle," &c. 
" 'Twas na her bonnie blue 
e'e," &c. 134 

LXXIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. witli Allan's 
design from " The Cotter's 
Saturday Night," 135 

LXXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " How 
cruel are the parents," and 
" Mark yonder pomp of 
costly fashion," 135 

LXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks 

for Allan's designs, 136 

LXXVL Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment, 136 
LXXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with an im- 
provement in " Whistle and 
I'll come to you, my lad"— 
" O this is no my ain lassie," 
" Now spi-ing has clad the 
grove in green"—" O bonnie 
was yon x-osy brier"—" 'Tis 
Friendship's pledge, my 
•young, fair friend," 136 

LXXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing 

Dr. Brianton, 138 

LX:XIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Forlorn my 

love, no comfort near," 138 

LXXX. Mr. B to Mr. T. " Last May 
a braw wooer cam down 
the lang glen"—" Why, why 
tell thy lover," a fragment, 139 
LXXXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 139 

LXXXII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. (1796) after 

an awful pause, 139 

LXXXIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for 
P Pindar, &c.— " Hey for a 
lass wi' a tocher," 140 

LXXXIV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has 
designed some plates for an 
octavo edition, 140 

LXXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by 
sickness, but pleased with 
Mr. Allan's etchings, 140 

LXXXVI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy- 
encouragement, 141 
LXXXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Here's 

a health to ane I lo'e dear," 141 
LXXXVIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing 
Mr. Lewars— Has taken a 
fancy to review liis songs — 
hopes to recover, 141 

LXXXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the 
horrors of a jail, solicits the 
advance of five pounds, and 
encloses " Fairest maid on 
Devon banks," 141 

XC. Mr. T to Mr. B. Sympathy— 
Ad\ises a volume of poetry 
to be published by subscrip- 
tion ; Pope published the Ili- 
ad so, 142 



CONTENTS, 



GENERx\L CORRESPONDENCE. 



LETTERS. 
No. 

1. To Mr. Jolm Murdoch. 15th Jan. 

1783. Burns' former teacher, giv- 
ing- an account of his present stu- 
dies, and temper of mind, 

2. Extracts from MSS. Observations on 

various subjects. 

3. To Mr. Aiken. 1786. Written un- 

der distress of inind 

4. To. Mrs Dunlop. Thanks for her no- 

tice. Praise of her ancestor, Sir 
William Wallace, 

5. To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair. Inclosing 

a poem on Miss A 

6. Proclamation in the name of the Mu- 



7. Dr. Bkcklock to the Rev. G. Lavvrie. 

Encouraging the Bard to visit Ed- 
inburgh, and print a new edition of 
his poem* there, 

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lawiie. 22d Dec. 

1786. Advice to the Bard, how to 
conduct himself in Edinburgh, 

9. To Mr, Chalmers. 27th Dec. 1786. 

Praise of Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo, 

1&. To the Earl of Eglinton. Jan. 1787. 
Thanks for his patronage, 

11. To Mrs. Dunlop. 15th Jan. 1787. 
Account of his situation in Edin- 
burgh, 

12I To Dr. Moore. 1787. Grateful ac- 
knowledgments of Dr. I\I.'s notice 
of him in his letters to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, 

13. From Dr. Moore. 23d Jan. 1787. In 

answer to the foregoing, and inclos- 
ing a sonnet on the bard by miss 
Williams, 

14. To Dr. Moore. 15th Feb. 1787. In 

reply, 

15. From Dr. Moore. 28th Feb. 1787. 

Sends the bard a present of Lis 
*'View of Society and Manners," 
&c. 

16. To the Earl of Gleucaim. 1787. 

Grateful acknowledgment of 
kindness, 

17. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a 

letter of advice, 

18. Extract, concerning the Monument 

erected for Fergusson by our poet, 

19. To . Accompany the foregoing, 

20. Extract, from . 8th March, 1787. 

Good advice, 

21. To Mrs. Dunlop. 22d March, 1787. 

Respecting his prospects on leaving 
Edinburgh, 

22. To the same. 15th April, 1787. On 

the same subject, 

23. To Dr. Moore. 23d April, 1787. On 

the same subject, 



age. 


No. 




24. 




25. 


147 




147 


26. 


150 


27. 




28. 


151 




151 


29. 


151 





152 





31. 


152 


32. 


153 


33. 


153 


34. 



153 



154 
155 



155 


40. 




41. 


155 






42. 


156 


43. 


156 




157 





158 


45. 


158 


46. 


158 





Extract, to Mrs. Dunlop. 30th April. 
Reply to Criticisms, 

To tne Rev. Dr. Blair. 3d May. Writ- 
ten on K a vhig Edinburgh. Thanks 
for his kindness, 

Froa Dr. Blair. 4 th May. In reply 
to the preceding, 

From Dr. Moore. 23d May, 1787. 
Criticissn ajid gooil advice, 

To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole. 
Inclosiiig the Huin'jl- Petition of 
Bruar- water to the Duke of Athole, 

To Mr. t_r. Burns. 17th St pt. Ac- 
count of liis tour through the 
Hig'ilands, 

From Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre. 
22d Oct. Inclosing Latin liiscrip- 
tions with Translations, and the 
Tale of OmcroM C.meroji, 

Mr. Ramsay to the Rtv. W, Young. 
22d Oct. Introilucing our poet 

Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Klacklock. 27th 
Oct. Anecdotes of Scottish songs 
for our po'Jt, 

From Mr. John Murdoch, in London. 
28th Oct. In answer to No. I. 

From Mr. . Gordon Castle, 31st 

Oct. 1787. Acknowledging a song 
sent to Lady Charlotte Gordon, 

From the Rev, J. Skinner, 1,4th Nov. 

1787. Some account of Scottish 
poems, 

From Mrs. . 30th Nov. Inclo- 
sing Erse songs, with the music, 

To the Earl of Glencairn. Requests 
his assistance in getting into the ex- 
cise. 

To Dalrymple, Esq. Congratu- 
lation on his becoming a poet. — 
Praise of Lord Glencairn, 

To Sir John Whitefoord. Dec- 
Thanks for friendship— Reflections 
on the poetical character. 

To Mrs. Duuiop. 21st Jan. 1788.— 
Written on recovery from sickness, 

Extract to the same. 12th Feb. 1788. 
Defence of himself, 

To the same, 7th March, 1788. Who had 
heard that he had ridiculed her. 

To Mr. Cleghorn. 3 1st March. Men- 
tioning his having comp ;sed the 
first stanza of the Chevalier's La- 
ment, 

From Mr. Cleghorn, 27th April. In 
reply to the above. The Cheva- 
lier's Lament in full, in a Note, 

To Mrs. Dunlop. 28th April. Giving 
an account of his prospects, 

From the Rev. J. Skinner. 28th April, 

1788. Enclosing two songs, one by 
himself, the other by a Bachan 



167 
167 
167 
168 



168 



169 
169 



CONTENTS, 



48. 



49. 



51. 



52. 



No. 

ploughman ; the songs printed at 
large, 
47. To Professor D. Stewart. 3d May, 
Thanks for his friendship. 
Extract to Mrs. Dujilop. 4th May. 
lleinarks on Drydtn's Virgil, and 
Pope's Odyssey. 
To the same. 27th May. General 
reflections, 
50. To the same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Had- 
dington. I3ih June, 1788. Ac- 
count of Iiis marriage, 
To Mr. P. Hill. Mith a present of 

cheese, 
To Mrs. Dunlop. 2d August, 1788. 
With lines on a hermitage, 

53. To the same. lOth August. Farther 

account of his marriage, 

54. To the same. i6th August. Reflec- 

tions on human life, 

55. To R. Graham, of Fintry, Esq. A pe- 

tition in verse for a situation in the 
Excise, 

56. To Mr. P. Hill. 1st October, 1788. 

Criticism on a poem, entitled, '' Au 
Address to Lochlomond,*' 

57. To Mrs. Dunloj), at Moreham Maines, 

13th November, 

58. To ***»*. 8tli November. Defence 

of the family of the Stewarts. 
Baseness of insulting fallen great- 
ness. 

59. To Mrs. Dunlop. 17th December. 

With the Soldier's song—" Go fetch 
to me a pint o' wine," 

60. To Miss Davies, a young Lady who had 

heard he had been making a ballad 
on her, inclosing that ballad, 

61. From Mr. G. Burns. 1st Jan. 1789. 

Reflections suggested by the day, 

62. To Mrs. Dujilop. 1st Jan. Reflec- 

tions suggested by the day, 

63. To Dr. Moore. 4th Jan. Account of 

his situation and prospects, 

64. To Professor D. Stewart, inclosing 

poems for his criticism, 

65. To Bishop Geddes. 3d Feb. Account 

of his situation and prospects, 
§6. From the Rev. P. Carlrae. 2d Jan. 
1789. Requesting advice as to the 
publishing Mr. Mylne's poems. 

To Mrs. Dunlop. 4th Mar(h. Re- 
flections after a visit to Edinburgh, 

To the Rev. P. Carfrae. In answer to 
No. 66, 

To Dr. Moore. 23d March. Inclosing 
a poem, 

70. To Mr. Hill. 2d April. Apostrophe to 

frugality, 

71. To Mrs. Dunlop. 4th April, 1789. 

With a si<etch of an Epistle in verse 
to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox, 

72. To Mr. Cunningham. 4th May. With 

the first drauglit of the poem on a 
Wouiided Hare, 

73. From Dr. Gregory. 2d June. Cri- 



67. 



69 



Page 


No. 


169 






74 


170 






75. 


171 


76. 


171 


77. 


171 


78. 


172 


79. 




SO. 


172 






81. 


173 






82. 


174 






83. 



!75 84, 



176 
177 



179 
179 
179 
180 
181 
181 

182 
182 
183 
183 
184 

184 



96. 
97. 
98. 
99. 
100. 



ticism of the poem on a Wounded 
Hare, 
To Mr M'Auley. of Dumbarton. 4th 

June. Account of his situation. 
To Mrs. Dunlop. 21sl June. Re- 
flections on religion. 
From Dr. Moore. lOth June, 1789. 

Good advice, 
From Miss J. Little. 12th July. A 
poetess in humble life, with apoem 
in praise of our bard. 
From Ml. *»»*•*. 5^1, August. Some 

account of Fergusson, 
To Mr. *•**•*. Inansv\er, 
To Miss Williams. Inclosing a criti 

cism on a poem of her's, 
From Miss Williams. In reply to the 

foregoing. 
To Mrs. Dunlop. 6th Sept. 1789. 

Praise of Zt luco. 
From Dr. IJIacklock. 24th August. 

An epistle in verse. 
To Dr. Blacklock. 21st Oct. Poeti- 
cal re])ly to the above, 
. To R. Graham, Esq. 9th Dec. In- 
closing some electioneering ballads, 
. To Mrs. Dunlop. i3th Dec. 1789. Se- 
rious and interesting reflections, 
. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a 
book society among the farmers in 
Nithsdale, 
. To Cliarles Sharpe, Esq. of Hoddam. 
Under a fictitious sigiiitture, inclos- 
ing a ballad, 1790 or 1791, 
. To Mr. G. Burns. 11th Jan. 1790. 
With a prologue, spoken on the 
Dumfries theatre, 
. To Mrs. Dunlop. 25th Jan. Some 
aiecount of Falconer, author of tlie 
Shipwreck, 
. From Mr. Cunningham. 28th Jan. 

1790. Inquiries after our bard, 
. To Mr. Cunni, gham. 13th Feb. In 
reply to the above. 
To Mr. Hill. 2d Mar. Orders for books, 
To Mrs. Dunlop. lOth April. Re- 
niarks on the Lounger, and on the 
writings of Mr. M-Kenzie, 
From Mr. Cunningham. 25th May. 
Account of the death of Miss Bur- 
net, of Monboddo, 
To Dr. Moore. 14'h July, 1790. Thanks 

for a present of Zeltico, 
To Mrs. Dunlop. 8th August. Writ- 
ten undtr wounded pride. 
To Mr. Cunningham. 8th Aug. As- 
pirations after independence. 
From Dr. Blacklock. 1st Sept. 1790. 

Poetical letter of friendship, 
Extract, from Mr. Cunningham. 14th 
Oct. Suggesting subjects for our 
poet's muse. 
To Mis. Dui.lop. Nov. 1790. Con- 
gratulations on the birth of her 
grai;d-s()ii, 
To Mr. Cunningham. 23d Jan. 1791. 



Page 



186 



187 



188 

189 



189 



19^ 



194 



195 



196 
197 



198 



19» 



199 



200 



200 



CONTENTS. 



No. 

With an elegy on Miss Bui'net, of 
Monboddo, 

103. To Mr. Hill. 17th Jan. Indignant 

apostrophe to poverty, 

104. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 12th March. 

Criticism on Tain o'Shanter, 

105. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply to the 

above, 

106. To Mrs. Dunlop. 7th Feb. 1791. In- 

closing his elegy on Miss Burnet, 

107. To Lady W. M. Constable. Acknow- 

ledging a present of a snuft-box, 

108. To Mrs. Graham, of Fintry. Inclosing 

" Queen Mary's Lament," 
1P9. From the Rev. G. Baird. 8th Feb. 
1781. Requesting assistance in 
publishing the poems of Michael 
Bruce, 

110. To the Rev. G. Baird. In reply to the 

above, 

111. To Dr. Moore. 28th Feb. 1791. In- 

closing Tam o'Shanter, &c. 

112. From Dr. Moore. 29th March. With 

remarks on Tam o'Shanter, &c. 

113. To the Rev. A. Alison. 14th Feb. 

Acknowledging his present of the 
" Essays on the Principles of 
Taste," with remarks on the book, 

114. To Mr. Cunningham. 12th March. 

With a Jacobite song, &c. 

115. To Mi-s. Dunlop. 11th April. Com- 

parison between female attractions 
in high and in humble life, 

116. To Mr. . Reflections on his 

own indolence, 

117. To Mr. Cunningham. 11th June. Re- 

questing his interest for an oppres- 
sed friend, 

118. From the earl of Buchan. 17th June, 

1791. Inviting over our bard to 
the coronation of the bust of Thom- 
son on Ednam Hill, 

119. To the earl of Buchan. In reply, 

120. From the earl of Buchan. 16th Sept. 

1791. Proposing a subject for our 
poet's muse, 

121. To Lady E. Cunningham. Inclosing 

" The Lament for James earl of 
Glencairn," 

122. To Mr. Ainslie. State of his mind 

after inebriation, 

123. From Sir John Whitefoord. 16th Oct. 

Thanks for " The Lament on James 
earl of Glencairn," 

124. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 27th Nov. 

1791. Criticism on the Whistle 
and the Lament, 

125. To Miss Davies. Apology for ne- 

glecting her commands— moral re- 
flections, 

126. To Mrs. Dunlop. 17th Dec. Inclos- 

ing " The Song of Death," 

127. To Mrs. Dunlop. 5th Jan. 1792. Ac- 

knowledging the present of a cup, 



203 



204 



204 



205 



Page No. Page 

128. To Mr. Wm. Smellie. 22d Jan. In- 
troducing Mrs. Riddel, 212 

129. To Mr. W. Nicol. 20th Feb. Ironical 
thanks for advice, 212 

130. To Mr. Cunningham. 3d March, 1792. 
Commissions his arms to be cut on 
a seal— moral reflections, 213 

131. To Mi-s. Dunlop. 22d August. Ac- 
count of his meeting with Miss 

L B , and inclosing a song 

on her, 213 

132. To Mr. Cunningham. lOlh Sept. Wild 
apostrophe to a Spirit ! 214 

133. To Mrs. Dunlop. 24th Sept. Account 
of his family, 21* 

134. To Mrs. Dunlop. Letter of condolence 
under affliction, 

135. To Mrs. Dunlop. 6th Dec. 1792. With 
a poem entitled " The Rights of 
Woman," 216 

136. To Miss B***** of York. 21st March, 
1793. Letter of friendship, 217 

137. To Miss C****. August 1793. Charac- 
ter and temperament of a poet, 218 

138. To John M'Murdo, Esq Dec. 1793- 
Repapiig money, 21f 

139. To Mrs. R*****. Advising her what 
play to bespeak at the Dumfries 
Theatre, 2l8 

140. To a Lady, in favor of a Player's 
benefit, 219 

141. Extract to Mr. . 1794. On 

his prospects in the excise, 219 

142. To Mrs. R**»**, 219 

143. To the same. Describes his melan- 
choly feelings, 219 

144. To the same. Lending Werter, 220 
145- To the same. On a return of inter- 
rupted friendship, 220 

146. To the same. On a temporary es- 
trangement, 220 

147. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on 
the happiness of Mr. O— , 220 

148. To Miss . Requesting the 

return of MSS. lent to a deceased 
friend, 22« 

149. To Mr. Cunningham. 25th Feb. 1794. 
Melancholy reflections — cheering 
prospects of a happier world, 221 

150. To Mrs. R*****. Supposed to he 
written from "The dead to the 
living," 222 

151. To Mrs. Dunlop. 15th Dec. 1795. 
Reflections on the situation of his 
family if he should die— praise of 
the poem entitled " The lask," 222 

152. To thf same, in London. 20th Dec. 
1795, 223 

153. To Mrs. R*»***. 20th Jan. 1796. 
Thanks for the Travels of Ana- 
charsis, 224 

211 154. To Mrs. Dunlop. 3lst J.an. 1796. 
Account of the death of his daugh- 

212 ter, and cf his ovn ill health. 224 



208 



208 
208 



209 



209 



210 



210 



CONTENT!. 



No. Page 

15*. To Mrs. R*»***. 4th June, 1796. 
Apology for not going to the birth- 
night assembly, 224 
156. To Mr. Cunningham. 7th July, 1796. 
Account of his iUness aud of his 



No. Page 

poverty— aniiciimtion of his death, 225 

157. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing affords 

little relief, 225 

158. To Mrs. Dunlop. 12th July, 1796. 

Last farewell, 22i 



POEMS FORMERLY PUBLISHED. 





Page 




Page 


Tlie Twa Dogs. A Tale, 


231 


Song, " It was upon a Lammas-night,''' 


278 


Scotch Drink, 


233 


Song, " Now %vestli7i xvmds, and slaughtering 




The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the 




guns'' 


278 


Scotch Representatives in the House of 




Song, " Behind yon hills ivhere Lvgar Jloxvs," 


279 


Commons, 


234 


Green grow the Rashes. A Fragment, 


279 


The Holy Fair, 


236 


Song, " Again rejoicing Nature sf-es," 


279 


Death and Dr. Hornbook, 


238 


Song, " The gloomy lught is gathering fast," 


280 


The Brigs of Ayr, 


240 


Song, " From thee, Eliza, I must go," 


280 


The Ordination, 


242 


The Farewell, to the Brethren of St. James's 




The Calf, 


243 


Lodge, Tarbolion_. 


280 


Address to the Deil, 


244 


Song, " No churchman am I for to rail and to 




The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, 


,245 


write," 


281 


Poor Mailie's Elegy, 


245 


Written in Friars Carse Hermitage, 


281 


To J. S**"*, 


246 


Ode to the memory of Mrs. of , 


282 


A Dream, 


247 


Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 


282 


The Vision, 


249 


Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, 


283 


Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 




To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, 


284 


Righteous, 


251 


Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, 


285 


Tam Samson's Elegy, 


252 


Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford with the 




Halloween, 


253 


foregoing Poem, 


285 


The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning Salu- 




Tam O'Shanter. A Tale, 


285 


tation to his Auld Mare Maggie, 


257 


On seeing a wounded Hare a fellow had shot at, 287 


To a Mouse, 


258 


Address to the Shade of Thomson, 


288 


A Winter Night, 


758 


Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, 


288 


Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, 


25» 




288 


The Lament. 


260 




288 


Despondency. An Ode, 
Winter. A Dirge, 


261 




288 

288 


262 


fnr n A V~n 




The Cotter's Saturday Night, 


262 


G. H. Esq. 


288 


Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge, 


264 


A Bard's Epitaph, 


288 


A Prayer in the Prospect of Death, 


265 


On Captain Grose's Peregrinations, 


289 


Stanzas on the same occasion. 


265 


On Miss Cruikshanks, 


289 


Verses left at a Friend's House, 


265 


Song, " Anna, thy charms my bosom fire" 


289 


The First Psalm, 


266 


On the Death of John M'Leod, 


290 


A Prayer, 


266 


Humble Petition of Bruar Water, 


290 


The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm, 


266 


On scaring some Water-fowl, 


291 


To a Mountain Daisy, 


267 


Written at the Inn of Taymouth, 


291 


To Ruin, 


267 


at the Fall of Fyers, 


291 


To Miss L , witli Beattie's Poems for a 




On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 


292 


New Year's Gift, 


267 


The Whistle, 


292 


Epistle to a Young Friend, 


267 


Second Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, 


29S 


On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 


268 


Appendix, Containing some particulars of the 




To a Haggis, 


269 


History of the Poems in this Volume^ by 




A Dedication to G*»** h* ••••**, Esq. 


269 


Gilbert Burns, 


294 


To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's bonnet 




Note respecting the Scots Musical Museum, 


299 


at Church, 


271 


Pages 300 to 311, contain 




Address to Edinburgh, 


271 


SONGS which have appeared in "The 




Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard, 


272 


Scots Musical Museum," &c.-And 




To the same. 


273 


313 to 322, contain 




Epistle to W. S**»*n, Ochiltree, 


274 


ORIGINAL POETICAL PIECES, not 




Epistle to J. R»**«»*, inclosing some Poems, 


, 275 


before published. 




John Barleycoi-n. A ballad. 


276 


Glossary, 


32!^ 


A Fragment," lichen Guildford good our pilot 








stood,''' 


277 







CONTENTS. 

RELIQUES OF ROBERT BURNS, 



LETTERS. 



iro. 
1. 



To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh. 
Mossgiel. Feb. 17, 1786. Giving 
an account of some of his compo- 
sitions, 

t. To Mr. M- IV ie, writer, Ayr. Moss- 

giel, 17th April. 1786, with four 
copies of his poems— Anxiety of a 
poet militant, 

S. To Mo7is. James Smith, Mauchtine. 
Monday morning, Moxsgiel, 1786. 
Voyage to the West Indies deJay- 
ed— Woman ] 

4. To Mr. David Brice. Mossgiel, June 

12, 1786. Approaching' departure 
for Jamaica— About to commence 
poet in print, and th^n to turn a 
wise man as fast as possible, 

5. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq Maiichline. 

Edinburgh. Dec. 7, 1786. Rhing 
fame— His birth-day to be inserted 
in the almanacks— Patronage— Lord 
Gleiicairn— I'he Caledonian Hunt, 

6. To Dr. M'Kenzie, Mauchline. M'ed- 

nesday morning. Inclosing him 
'the extempore verses on dining 
with Lord Daer— Character of pro- 
fV>.w Diigald Stewart, 

7. To John Ballantine, Esq. banker, Ayr. 

Edinbui-gh, I3th Dec 1786. A host 
of patrons and patronesses, 
S. To Mr. U^illiam Chalmers, writer, 
Ayr, Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 
A humorous sally% 
9. To John Ballantine, Esq. Edinburgh, 
Jan. 14, 1787. Mr. Miller's o.fer 
of a farm at Dalswinton— Honors 
done him at a mason-lodge, 

To the same. With a copy of " The 
Daiiris o' boni e Doon." 

To the same. Edinburgh Feb. 24, 
1787. Poems on the eve of pub- 
lication—his phiz to be pi-efixed to 
them, 

To Mr, James Candlish, student in phxj' 
sic, College. Glasgow. Edinburgh, 
March 21, 1787. Return from Scep- 
ticism to Religion— still " the old 
man with his deeds," 

To the same. Engages to assist John- 
son in the Scots Musical Museum, 

14. To JVilliam Creech, Esq. {of Edin- 

burgh) London. Selkirk, 13th May, 
1787. His tour in Scotland—" Wil- 
lie's awa," 

15. To Mr. IV. Nicol, master of the high 

school, Edinburgh, Carlisle, June 
1, 1787. A journey on his mare 
Jenny Gt-dd'^— Humorous, and in 
the Scottish dialtct. 

16. To the same. Mauchline, June 18, 



10. 



11. 



15. 



13. 



No. P«ge 

Page 1787. Milton's Satan his favourite 

—Misfortune of the poetic charac- 
ter— Estiuiate of his friends and 
acquaintance, 347 

341 17. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq Stirling, 
2Sth Aug. 1787. Account of his 
rambles— A visit to Mr. H 's re- 
lations, 347 

341 18. FRAGMENTS. 

To Miss Margaret Chalmers, (norv Mrs, 
Hay of Edinburgh) Sept. 26, 1787. 
Fireside of Wisdom and Prudence 

341 — Admiratio)! of the fair sex— about 
a farm at Dumfries— Compliment 
to Charlotte—" The banks of the 
Devon," 348 

Edinburgh, Nov 21, 1787. Hints to 

342 her and Charlotte about letter- 
writing — Aifection — " The Wab- 
ster's grace," 349 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. A bruised 
limb— and blue devils. Taken up 
342 with the bible, 34f 

Edin ur^h, Dec, 19, 1787. On the stilts, 
not poetic but oaken— His mctto, 
I DARE— His enemy moi-meme, 349 

Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. Bargain 

342 for the Ellisland farm completed— 
Settling to business— Dr. Johnson's 
observation— Firmness, 349 

343 Mauctilinc, 7th April, n^i. T\\^\\\i% for 

their introduction to Miss Kennedy, 350 
Hair-breadth love escapes — Forebodings, 350 
34S Edinburgh, Sunday. Entered into the 

Excise— Satisfied with himself, 350 

19. To Miss M n, Saturday noon, St. 

James''s Square, Newtoxvn, Edin- 

343 burgh. Compliments, a Greenland 
expression, 350 

344 20. To Mr. Robert Ainslie, Edinburgh, 

Edinburgh, Sunday morning, Nov. 
23, 1787. Declines a supper-en- 
gagement— Warm friendship, 351 
344 21. To Miss Chalmers. Edinburgh, Dec, 

1787. Reproaches her timidity re- 
specting his poetic compliments — 
Remarks on Mr. ——, 351 

22, To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchline. 

344 Ellisland, Jan. 22, 1788. A ludi- 
crous specimen of the bathos, 351 

345 23. To Mr. James S?nith, Avon Printfield, 

Linlithgow. Mauchline, April 28, 

1788. Opens a twenty-four gun 
battery— Estimate of some men's 

345 ideas— His recent marriage—'" The 
beginning of sorrows," 351 

24. To Mr. Robert Ain.iHe. Mauchline, 
May 26, 1788. Finishing his ex- 
cise instructions— Fortunate in his 

346 bargains — Conjugal happiness- 
Character «f Mrs. B , Z52 



CONTENTS. 



xiii 



No. 
25. 



32. 



34. 



37. 



To the same. EUislanil, June 14, 1''8 
Cares and anxielR-s— Fancy and 
judgment— Hints about marriage, 

To thesam . Ellisland,June 30, 1788. 

About a profile of a Mr. H . 

Folly of talking about one's private 
affairs— Close of a letter of Boling- 
broke to Dean Swift, 

To Mr. George Lockhart, merchant, 
Glasgow. Mauchiine^Jubj 18, 1788. 
The lovely Miss Bailies— Idea of 
an aeconiplish'd woman, 

To Mr. Beugo, engraver, Edinburgh. 
Ellisland, Sept. 9, 1788. At a loss 
for social con. munication— Ellis- 
land the elbow of existence- Ayr- 
shire and his darling Jean, 

To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh, Ellis' 
land, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 
Bad harvest — Tender regrets— His 
marriage - Description of Mrs B. — 
Her " wood-note wild" — Excise- 
Poetical speculations— Friars Carse, 

To Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop. Mauch- 
line, 27th Sept. 1788. Grateful for 
her criticisms— Verses on a mother's 
loss of her son, 

To Mr. James Johnson, Edinhiirgh. 
Two more songs— Asks a fair sub- 
ject for his muse. 

To Dr. Black-tuck. Mauchline, Nov. 
15, 1788. Poetical labours— Grati- 
tude — The doctor's beuevoh nee, 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie Ellisland, Jin. 
6, 1789. Compliments of tlk.- sea- 
son— '• Reason aiid resolve"—" Ne- 
ver to despair,"' 

To Mr. James Hamilton, grocer, Glas- 
gow. Ellisland, May 26, 1789. 
Sympathy in his misfortunes 

To IVm. Creech. Esq. Ellisland, May 
30, 1789. loolh-ache personified 
- Another specimen of the bathos, 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Ellisland, June 
8, 1789, Overwhelmed with busi- 
ness—Serious counsel, 

To Capt. Riddel. Carse. Ellisland, 
Oct. 16, 1789. Poetic apprehen- 
sions— "The Whistle"— " Here are 
we met." &c. 

To the same. " An old song," 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Ellisland, 
Nov. 1. 1789. Appointed to an ex- 
cise division— Droll harangue of a 
recruiting sergeant, 

To Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edin- 
burgh. Ellisland, Feb. 2, 1790. 
His rascally occupation as guager 
must serve as an apology for his 
silence— Asks after a celebrated 
lady of his own name— Commis- 
sions some cheap books— Smollett's 
works on account of their incomiia- 
rable humour — Is nice only in the 
appearance of his Poets— must have 
Cowper'8 poems and a family bi- 
ble, 



Page 



No. 
41. 



353 



353 



357 



358 



358 
359 



50. 



53. 



54. 



55. 



360 



Page 
To Mr. (V. Nicol. Ellisland, Feb. 9, 

1790. A dead mare— A theatrical 
compsiny — " Peg Nicholson," 5G0 

To Mr. Murdoch, teacher of French, 
London. Apology for negligence 
— His brother William in London — 
Veneration for his father— Mr. Mur- 
doch's interesting note, 261 

To Crauford Tail, Esq. Edinburgh. 
Ellisland, Oct. 15, 1790. Introdu- 
ces Mr. Wm. Duncan of Ajrshire 
—Gives his character, and recom- 
mends him to Mr. Tait's good offi- 
ces—The power the fortunate en- 
joy to dispense happiness — Repeats 
his request in the style of the world 
— His own condition, 362 

To . Imprecations, 36? 

To Mr. Alexander Dalziel. factor, 
Findlayston. Ellisland. March 19, 

1791. Enclosing a poem — Laments 
the death of his noble patron. Lord 
Glencairn — begs to know the day of 

his interment, 363 

To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Ellisland, Sept. 
1, 1791. Favorite quotations on 
fortitude and perseverance— Roup, 
or auction, at which his dogs got ^ 
drunk by attending the guests, 363 

To Francis Grose, Esq. F. A. S. 1792. 
Introducing Professor Dugald Stew- 
art, whose characteristic features he 
pourtrays, 364 

To the same. Three traditions— one 
of them the foundation of his Tarn 
o' Shanter, 364 

To R. Graham, Esq. Fintry. Dec. 

1792. Pathe(ic exculpation of him- 
self from the charge of disaffection 
to government— adjures Mr. G. to 
save him from impending ruin, 365 

To Mr. T. Clarke, Edinburgh. July 16, 
1792. Humorous invitation to come 
and teach mnsic in the country; 366 

To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 31, 1792. Seri- 
ous thoughts— CongratulatkS her re- 
covery from sickness- Suffers from 
occasional hard drinking— resolves 
to leave it off— Excellent reatark of 
Bloomfield— Forswears i)olitics, 366 

To Patrick Miller, Esq. of Dalsivinton. 
April. 1793. Witli a copy of a new 
edition of his poems, 3G6 

To John Francis Erskine, Esq. of Mar. 
Dumfries, 13th April, 1793. Gra- 
titude for his patronage and friend- 
ship—Escapes dismission from the 
excise — His sentiments on Constitw 
tion and Ref inn— Glorious asser- 
tion of his independence— A jja- 
thetic injunction, 367 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie. April 26, 1793. 
The merry devil Spunkie his tutelar 
genius— Thoughts on scholar-craft 
— A tailor's progress in theology, 36S 

To Miss K . Force of beauty 

an poetJ— A benediction, 363 



CONTENTS, 



No. 

56. 



59. 



60. 



64. 



66. 



To Lady Glencairn. Thanks foi- her 

letter— Gratitude — Advantages of 

his business in ilie excise— Turns 

his thoughts to the drama, 

To the Earl of Buchan. With a copy 

of " Bruce to his troops," 
To the Earl of Glencairn. Remem- 
brance of his noble brother— Offers 
a copy of the new edition of his 
poems, 
To Dr. Anderson. Declines assisting 
in his purposed publication— Curses 
the excise, 
To Mrs. Dunlop. Castle Douglas, 25th 
June, 1794. Ill health— Fragment 
of a poem on Liberty, 
To Mr. James Johnson. Sends forty- 
one songs for the fifth volume of 
the Museum — Lord Balmeriuo's 
dirk— Thanks for the Volunteer 
ballad. 
To Miss Fontenelle. Accompanying a 
prologue to be spoken on hor be- 
nefit, 
To Peter Miller, jun. Esq. of Dalswin' 
ton. Declines an engagement in 
the Morning Chi'onicle— offers oc- 
casional contributions. 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Dwnfries, 
Congratulations on returning health 
—Cautions against drinking— Fath- 
er Auld, 
To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. Dumfries. 
Sunday morning. Deep concern 
respecting a quarrel— a toast the 
cause of it, 
To Mr. Alexander Findlatcr, Super- 
visor of excise, Dumfries, Schemes 
— Wishes— Hopes, 
To the editors of the Morning Chronicle. 
Dumfries. On misdelivery of a 
paper containing the marquis of 
Lansdowne's speech. 
To col. W. Dunbar. Is still alive, ful- 
filling one great end of his exist- 
ence-Compliments of the season 
in the bard's own style, 
To Mr. Heron of Heron. 1794 or 1795. 
Political ballads— Explains his situ- 
ation and expectancies in the ex- 
cise, but disclaims any wish to hook 
his dependence on Mr. Heron's be- 
nevolence. 
To the right hon. IV. Pitt. Address 
in behalf of the Scots distillers- 
Speaks to him the language of truth 
—Reflections on the selfish nature 
of man— Advises him to spurn flat- 
tery—Hails Mr. P 's passage to 

the realms of ruin— Compares Mr. 
P. to a wide-spreading tree cut down 
by one from Heaven— Deplores the 
ruin of Scotland, hurt by the excise 
laws — Ironical consolations for the 
hour of adversity 
To the magistrates of Dumfries. Pe« 



Page No. 



titions to be put on the footing of 
a real freeman as far as relates to 
the privilege they enjoy of having 
369 their children educated gratis, 

72. To Mr. James Johnson, Edinburgh. 

369 Dumfries, 4th July, 1796. Enqui- 
ries after the Museum — Anxious 
and pathetic forebodings on his ap- 
proaching dissolution. " Hope the 

370 cordial of the human heart," 
Strictures on Scottish songs and ballads, 
An account of James Tytler, (Note) 
Commonplace book, journals, &c. 
Fragments, miscellaneous remarks, fcc. 



Page 



371 



374 



375 

377 
401 
407 
419 



370 LETTERS FROM WILLIAM BURNS. 

No. Page 

1. To Mr. Robert Burns, Ellisland. Long- 
town, 15th Feb. 1789, 425 
370 2. To the same. Neivcastle, 24th Jan. 



1790, 

3. To the same. 

1790, 

4. To the same. 



London, 2l5t March, 



426 



426 



374 



From Mr. Murdoch, 
London, I4th Sept. 1790, giving him 
an account of the death of his broth- 
er William, 

POETRY. 
I. 

EPISTLES IN VERSE. 

1. To J. Lapralk, 13th Sept. 1785, 

2. To the Rev. John M'-Math, nth Sept. 

1785. enclosing a copy of Holy Wil- 
lie's Prayer, 

3. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline. 

Recommending a boy, 

4. To Mr. M-Ada7n, of Criagen-Gillan. In 

answer to an obliging letter he sent 
Burns in the commencement of his 
poetic career, 

5. To cnpt. Riddel, Glenriddel. Ellisland. 

— Extempore lines on returning a 
newspaper, 

6. To Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his 

birth-day, 

7. To a Lady, with a present of a pair of 

drinking glasses, 

XL 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Tragic Fragment, 

The Vowels, a tale, 

A character, 

Scots prologue, 

An extemporaneous eflTusion on being ap- 
pointed to the excise, 

To the Owl, 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G — - 

On the same, 

On the same, 

To the same, on the Author being threaten- 
ed with his resentment, 

The Dean of Faculty, a new ballad, 



431 



433 



432 



433 



434 



4c 
435 
435 
435 

436 
436 
437 
437 
437 

437 

437 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



Page 

Extempore in the Court of Session, 437 

Verses to J. Ranken, 438 
Oil hearing that there was falsehood in the 

Rev. Dr. B 's very looks, 438 

On a school-master in Cleish parish, Fife-shire, 438 

Address to general Dumouriei-, 438 

Elegy on the year 1788, a sketch, 438 
Verses written under the portrait of Fer- 

gusson the poet, 439 

III. 

SONGS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 443 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever, 443 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 443 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green, 443 

O how can I be blythe and glad, 444 

Out over the Forth, I look to the north, 444 

As I was & wandVing ae morning in spring, 444 



Page 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 444 

First when Maggy was my care, 444 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad, 445 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 445 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 445 

Ilk care an«l fear, when thou art near, 445 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 445 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e, 446 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 446 

To tliee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 446 
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes 

at last, 446 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 416 

Ihe Deil cam' fiddling thro' the town, 447 

Powers celestial, whose protection, 447 
The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn, 447 

Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, 447 

Amang the trees where humming bees, 448 



INDEX TO THE POETRY. 



Page 
Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 280 
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace 291 
Adown winding Nith did I wander 110 
Ae day as Death, that grusome carl 438 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 443 
Again rejoicing Nature sees - 279 
Again the silent wheels of time 267 
A guid new-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 257 
Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door 98 
A little, upright, pert, tart, trippling wight 435 
All devil as I am, a damned wretch 435 
All hail inexorable lord 267 
Altho' my bed were in 5'on muir 146 
Amang the trees where humming bees 448 
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 291 
Ance mair I hail thee, tliou gloomy Decem- 
ber 308 
An honest man here lies at rest 321 
Anna, thy cliarms my bosom fire 289 
An' O for ane and twenty. Tarn 306 
A rose-bud by my early walk 301 
As down the burn they took their way 113 
As I stood by yon roofless tower 310 
As I Mas a wandering ae raoming in Spring 444 
As Maillie an' her lambs thegither 245 
Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest 345 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 140 
A' ye wha live by soups o' drink 268 
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay 289 
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows 279, 411 
Behold tJie hour, the boat arrive 112 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes 288 
Blink o'er tlie burn, sweet Betty 384 
Jjlythe, blythe, and men-j- was sl»e 301 
Blythe hael been on yon hill 105 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thinf 306 
Bright ran thy line, O G 437 



Page 

But lately seen in gladsome green 126 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove 109 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik 301 

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day 207 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 131 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes 121 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 302 

Collected Harry stood a wee 437 

Come let me take thee to my breast 110 

Comin' thro' the craigs o' Kyle 399 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair 130 

Curse on ungrateful man, thai can be pleas'd 439 

Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart 190 

Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief 245 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 117 

Dire was the lute at old Harlaw 437 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 319 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo 96 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark 282 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 271 

Expect na, sir, in this narration 269 

Fair empress of the poet's soul 434 

Fairest maid on Devon banks 142 

Fair fa' the honeit rustic swain 188 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face 
False flatterer, Hope, away 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 

ye skies 47,211 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 
First when Maggie was my care 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes 
For lords or kings I dlnna mourn 
Forlorn my love, no comfort near 
Frae the I'riei-nUand land I Invr 



269 
41 



12s 
445 
309 
444 

303 
43S 
15S 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Friend of the poet tried and leal 319 

Prom thee. Eliza, I must go 280 

Gane is the day, iind mirk's the nig-ht 305 

Gin ye meet a boniiie lassie 380 

Go fetch le ine a pint o' wine 179, 394 

Green grow the rashes, O 279, 413 

Guid moriiiii to your majesty 247 

Guid spted an' finder to you, Johny 431 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 109 

Hail, Poesiel thou nymph reserv'd 314 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin feriie 271 

Has auld K********* seen the dril ? 252 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief 433 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, ai.d brither Scots 289 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist 437 

Here awa', there awa', wandering VV^illie 99, 100 

Here sowter **** in death dots sleep 288 

Here is the glen, and here the bower 120 

Here lie Willie M— hie's banes 438 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend 445 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 141 

Here's a health to them that's awa' 443 

Here where the Scottish muse immortal lives 120 

Her flow ing locks the raven's v^ Ing 446 

How can my poor heart be glad 12 1 
How cold is that bosom which folly once 

fir'd 316 

How cruel are the parents 135 
How does my dear friend, much I languish 

to hear ' 200 

How long and dreary is the night 125 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-M inding 

Devon 38 
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite 184 
Husband, husband, cease your strife 119 
I call no goddess to inspire my strains 321 
I do confess tliouartsae fair 438 
I do confess thou 'rt smooth and fair 399 
I dream'd I lay where flowers were spring- 
ing 388 
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 303 
I gat your letter, winsome Willie 274 
I hae a wife o' my ain 43 
I hold it, sir, my bounden duty 432 
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend 267 
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near 445 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town 444 
I look to the west when I gae to rest 207 
I mind it weel, in early date 415 
I'm three times doubly o'er jour debtor 293 
Inhuman man I curse on thy barb'rous art 

285, 187 

In simmer when the hay was mawn 306 

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth 292 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 288 

Is there, for honest poverty 132 

It was the charming month of May 217 

It was upon a Lannnas night 278 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 320 

John Anderson my jo, John 304 

Keen blows the wind o'er Donochthead 124 

Ken ye ought o' captain Grose ? 321 

Kilmarnock wabsters. fidge and claw 242 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through 314 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 288 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose 245 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 128 



Last May a braw wooer eaiuc down the lang 

glen 
Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg 
Let other poets raise a fracas 
Let me wander where I will 
Let not woman e'er complain 
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
Like the fair plant that from our touch 

witlidraws 132 

Long, long the night 134 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 300 

Louis, what reck I by thee 309 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 136 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave 123 

Musing on the roaring ocean 301 

My blessins upon thy sweet wee lippie 421 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 127 

My curse upon your vtnom'd stang 320 
My father was a farmer upon the Camck 

border O 412 

My heart is a breaking, dear tittie 304 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell 309 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here 395 

My honour d colonel, deep I feel 319 

My lord, I know, your noble ear 290 
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 

friend 262 

My Mary, dear departed shade .' 192 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 321 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair 317 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write 281 
No more of your guests, be they titled or 

not 318 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more 316 

No sculjjtur'd marble here.'nor pompous lay 157 
No song or dance I bring from yon great 

city 194 

No Stewart art thou, G 437 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 443 
Now in her green mantle blythe nature 

an-ays 132 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 283 

Now Robin lies in his last lair 415 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 111 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes 300 

Now spring has clad the grove in green 137 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 278 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier 137 

O cam you here the fight to shun 315 

O condescend, dear charming maid 118 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody 282 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 303 
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace 

148, 140 

O gin my love were yon red rose 105 

O had the malt thy strength of mind 318 

Oh open the door, some pity to show 99 

O how can 1 be blythe and glad 444 

Oh wert thou in the cold blast 318 

O ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten 101 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet 133 

Old Winter with his frosty beard 318 

O leave novels, ye Maucliline belles 78 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel 306 

O leeze me on my wee thing 95 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 105 



GONTENTS. 



78, 



O luve will venture io M^here it daur na 

weel be steii 
O Mai), ai tlie wiiulow be 
O May, ill) mora was ne'er so sweet 
O lutikle iliuiks uiy love o' my beauty 
Oiiurk, luiiKis the midiiighl iiour 
O luy iuve's like a red, itU rose 
On (Jtssiiuck banks there iives a lass 
Out night as i tlid w auder 
O oiict 1 lov'd a boimie Jass 
O i'lml), ha|)py be ihai day 
O i>ooiiUh cuuid, and restless love 
O^jprcssa wuh griel, oppress d with care 
O rugiiijj l-oriujic's witlieruig blast 
O rough, rude, ready-witted K»»»»** 
O saw ye uoiiuie A^esley 
O saw ye my dear, niy Phely 
O aia), sweet warbling wood-lark, stay 
O tell ..a me o' wjiul auU raiu 
O that 1 had ne'er been marned 
O that my lather had ne'er on me smil'd 
O tins IS no iiiiuc ain house 
O tins IS no iny aiii lassie 
O thouuread Pow'r, who reign'st above! 
O ihou gie.a Being, what thou art 
O thou pale orb, that silent shines 
O thou, the tirst, the greatest friend 
O thou unknown, almighty cause 
O thou wnaiever title suit thee 
O thou wiio Kindly dost provide 
O 1 ibbie, 1 hae seen the day 
Our lords are to tlie mountains gane 
Out over the Forth 1 iook to the north 
O wat ye wha's in yon town 
O were 1 on Parnassus hill 
O were my love yon lilac fair 
O wha is she that loes me 
O wha my babie-clouis will buy ? 
O w lastle and I'll come to you, my lad 
A variation in the chorus 
O why should old age so much wound us ? O 
O why the deuce should 1 repine 
O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 
O VViUic, weel 1 mnid, I lent you in y hand 
O ye wua are sae guid joursel 
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains 
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare 
Powers celestial, i^f hose protection 
Pursue, O burns, thy happj style 
Raving winds around her blowing 
Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills 
Revered uefender of beauteous Stewart 
Right, sir I your text I'll prove it true 
Sad bird of uight, what sorrow calls thee 

forth 
Sad thy tale, thou idle page 
Sae tiaxen were her linglets 
Sae ye my Peggy 
Saw ye my Maggie 
Scenes of woe, and scenes of pleasure 
Scots, wha hae w i' Wallace bled 
Searching auld wives' barrels 
Sensibility how^ charming 
She is a winsome wee thing 
She's fair and fause thai causes my smart 



Page 



307 

99 

309 

305 

98 
310 
445 
414 
409 
129 

96 
261 
417 
275 

94 
124 
134 
133 
222 
195 
393 
137 
265 
266, 411 
260 
266 
265, 413 
244 
321 
302 
397 
444 
310 
302 
106 
320 
395 
110 
110 
170 

78 
303 
382 
251 
288 
361 
447 

80 
300 

73 
313 
243 

436 
290 
122 
380 
380 
326 
112, 115 
436 
321 
94 
300 



rage 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot ii4 
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon thy leafless 

bough 318 

Sir, as your manuate did request 317 

Sir, o'er a gill 1 gat your carvl 433 

Skep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature 125 

blow spreads the giooiu my ioul desires 443 

bome boous are lies liae end to end 238 
Some siiig ol sweet Molly, some slug of fair 

Ntliy, 169 

Spare me thy vengeance, G ■ 437 

SU), my charmer, can you leave me? 300 

Stay, my VViilie — )et believe me 13 1 

Still anxious to secure your partial favor 223 

Slop, passenger ! my story's brief 283 

Streams that glide in orient plains 40 
Sweet closes the evening ou Craigie-burn 

wood 397 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn 133 

Sweet iiow'ret, pledge o' meikle love 292 

Ihat there is falsehood in his looks 438 

The Catrine wooils were yellow seen 303 

The day returns, my bosom burns 302 

The deil cam fiduluig thro' tlie town 447 

Ihee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among 370 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 319 

The gloomy n.ghl is gathering last 280 
The heather was ulooming, the meadows 

were maun 447 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun 96 
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lands reckon 135 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill 302 

The lovely lass o' InveiTiess 309 

The man, in life wherever plac'd 266 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee 203 

The poor man weeps, here ti sleeps 2U 

There's auld Kob Morris that wons in yon 

gien 9C 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great 

pity 395 

There's braw, bi-aw lads on Yarrow braes 97 

'1 here's naething like the honest nappy 421 

There's nouglit but care onev'ry han' 413 

There was a lad was born in Kyle 414 

There was a lass and she was fair 106 
There was a pretty May, and a milkiug she 

went 383 
There was once a day, but old Time then 

was young 313 

There was three kings into the east 276 

The simple bard, rough at tlie rustic plough 240 
The small birds rejoice in tlie green leaves 

returning 168 

The smiling spring conies in rejoicing 308 

The sun had clos'd the winter day 249 

The I'hames liows proudly to the sea 304 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills 285 
The winter it is past, and the summer comes 

at last 445 

The wintry west extends his blast 262, 411 

They snool me sair, and hand me down 306 

Tinckesl nigiit o'tfi-hang my dwelling 300 

Thine am I, my faithful fair 11? 



CONTENTS, 



Page 
318 
315 
31 
414 
114 



Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair 

Tliis day Time w iuds the exhausted chain 

This wot ye all whom it concerns 

Tho' cruel Fate should bid us part 

Thou hast left ine ever, Jamie 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray 28 

Thou ot an independent mind 316 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove 448 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 173, 281 

Thou who thy honour as thy God rever'st 285 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair 

friend 
■Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright 
To Crochallan came 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow 
Turn again, thou fair £liza 
'Twas even, the dewy fields were green 
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 
'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin 
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong 

were ply'd 
Up in the morning's no for me 
Upon a simmer Sunday morn 
Upon that night, when fairies light 
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped tlow'r 
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'ious beastie 
Wha is that at my bower door ? 
Whare are yt gaun, my bonnie lass 
What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie 
What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 
What needs this din about the town o' 

Lon'on 
When biting Boreas, feel and doure 
When chapman billies leave the street 
When chill November's surly blast 
When clouds in skies do come together 
When Death's dark stream 1 ferry o'er 
When first I came to Stewart Kyle 
When Guilford good our pilot stood 



138 

422 
316 
446 

100 
307 
28 
231 
135 

435 
3»8 
236 
253 
446 
267 
258 
400 
396 

305 
437 

435 
258 
285 
264 
416 
322 
415 
?77 



When I upon thy bosom lean 

When Nature her great masterpiece de- 

sign'd 
When o'er the hill the eastern star 
WJien rosy May comes in wi' flowers 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 
Where are the joys 1 hae met in the morning 
Where bracing angry winter's storms 
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 
While at the stook the shearers cowr 
While briers an' woodbines budding green 
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things 
While larks with little wing 
While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake 
While soon " the garden's flaunting flowers' 

decay 
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw 
Who'er thou art, O reader, know 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 



Page 
S$2 

175 
92 
393 
101 
116 
301 
309 
431 
272 
217 
108 
273 

154 

288 
259 
288 



265,413 

139 

291 

307 

93 

119, 308 
199 



Why, why tell thy lover 

Why, ye tenants of the lake 

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 

Wilt thou be my dearie 

With musing deep astonish'd stare 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song 

Yestreen I got a pint of wine 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 

Ye true '• Loyal Natives," attend to my song 

Yon wifd mossy mountains sae lofty and 

wide 400 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 445 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass 447 

Your news and review, sir, I've read through 

and through, sir 433 

You're welcome to despots, Dumotirier 438 



191 
94 
307 
344 
393 
234 
373 
103 
103 
373 



LIFE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS, 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



Though the dialect m which many of the hap- 
piest effusions of Robert Bums are composed be 
peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputation has ex- 
tended itself beyond the limits of that country, 
and his poetry has been admired as the offspring 
of original genius by persons of taste in every 
part of the sister islands. The interest excited 
by his early death and the distress of his infant 
family, has been felt in a remarkable manner 
wherever his writings have been known ; and 
these posthumous volumes, which give to the 
world his works complete, and which it is hoped 
may raise his widow and children froni penury, 
are printed and published in England. It seems 
proper, therefore, to write the memoirs of his 
life, not with the view of their being read by 
Scotchmen only, but also by natives of England, 
and of other countries where the English lan- 
guage is spoken or understood. 

Robert Buriis was in reality what he has been 
i-epreseiited to be, a Scottish peasant. To render 
the incidents of his humble story generally intelli- 
gible, it seeins therefore advisable to prefix some 
observations on the character and situation of the 
order to which he belonged, a class of men dis- 
tinguished by many peculiarities. By this means 
we shall form a more correct notion of the advan- 
tages with which he staited, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted. A few observations on the 
Scottish peasantry, will not perhaps be found un- 
worthj' of attention in othir respects, and the 
subject is in a great measvire new. Scotland has 
produced persons of high distinction in every 
branch of philosophy and literature, and her his- 
tory, while a separate and independent nation, 
has been successfully explored. But the present 
character of the peo^jle was not then formed ; the 
nation then presenttd fe tur- s sitailar to those 
which the feudal system and the catholic religion 



had diffused orer Europe, modified indeed by the 
peculiar nature of her territory and climate. The 
Reformation, by which such important changes) 
were produced on the national character, was 
speedily followed by the accession of the Scottish 
moiiarchs to the Ei.glish throne, and the period 
which elapsed from that accession to the Union 
has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by those 
bloody convulsions in which both divisions of the 
island were involved, and which in a considerable 
degree concealed from the eye of the historian, 
the domestic history of the people, and the gra- 
dual variations in tin ir condition and manners. 
Since the Union, Scotland, though the seat of 
two unsuccessful attempts to restore the house of 
Stewart to the throne, has enjoyed a comparative 
tranquillity, and it is since this period that the 
present character of her peasantry has been in a 
great measure formed, though the political causes 
affecting it are to be traced to the previous acts of 
her se];arate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scotland will serve to convince an unprejudiced 
observer, that they possess a degree of intelligence 
not generally found among the same class of men 
in the other countries of Europe. In the very 
humblest condition of the Scottish peasants every 
one can read, and most persons are more or les« 
skilled in writing and arithmetic ; and under the 
disguise of their uncouth ap])earance, and of 
their peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger 
will discover that they possess a curiosity, and 
have obtained a degree of information corres- 
ponding to these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal provi- 
sion made by the parliament of Scotland, in 164r>, 
for the establishment of a school in every parish 
throughout the kingdom, for the express purpose 
of educating the jtoor; a law which may chjil- 
A 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



lenge comparison with any act of leg^islation to be 
found in the records of history, whether we consi- 
der the wisdom of the ends in view, the simplicity 
of the means employed, or the provisions made to 
render these means effectual to their purpose. 
This excellent statute was repealed on the acces- 
sion of Charles II. in 1660, together Avith all the 
other laws passed durijig the commonwealth, as 
not being- sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept 
during the reigns of Charles and James, but was 
re-enacted precisely in the same terms, by the 
Scottish parliament, after the revolution in 16Q6 ; 
and this is tlie last provision on the subject. Its 
effects on the national character may be consider- 
ed to have commenced about the period of the 
Union, and doubtless it co-operated with the peace 
and security arising from that happy event, in 
producing the extraordinary change in favour of 
industry and good morals, which the character of 
the common people of Scotland has since undei-- 
gone. See Appendix, No. I. Note A. 

The church-establishment of Scotland happily 
coincides with the institution just mentioned, 
which may be called its school-establishment. The 
clergyman being every where resident in his par- 
ticular parish, becomes tlie natural patron and su- 
lierintendant of the palish school, and is enabled 
in various ways to promote the comfort of the 
teacher and the proficiency of the scholars. The 
teacher himself is often a candidate for holy or- 
ders, who, during the long course of study and 
probation lequired in the Scottish church, i-en- 
ders the time which can be spared from his \tvo- 
fessional studies, useful to others as well as to 
himself, by assuming the respectable character of 
a school-master. It is common for the established 
schools even in the country parishes of Scotland, 
to eiijoy the meaiis of classical instruction, and 
man)' of the farmers, and some even of the cotta- 
gers, submit to much privation, that they may 
obtain for one of their sons at least, the precari- 
ous advantage of a learned education. The diffi- 
culty to be surmounted, arises indeed not from 
the expence of instructing their cliildren, but 
from the charge of supporting them. In the 
country parisli schools the English language, writ- 
ing, and accounts, are generally taught at the rate 
of six shillings, and Latin, at the rate of ten or 
twelve shillijigs per annum. In the towns the 
prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degree of instruction received 
at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise esti- 
mate of its effects, either on the individuals who 
are the subjects of this instruction, or on the com- 
munity to vhich they belong. That it is on the 
whole favourable to industry and morals, though 
doubtless with some individual exceptions, seems 
to be proved by the most striking and decisive 
appearance ; and it is equally clear, that it is the 
tause of that spirit of emigration and of adven- 
ture so prevalent among the Scots. Knowledge 
lias, by Lord Verulam, been denominated power ; 
by others it has with less propriety been denomi- 
nated virtue or happiness: M'e may with confi- 
dence consider it as motion. A human being, in 
proportion as be is informed, has his wishes en- 



larged, as well as the means of gratifjing those 
wishes. He may be considered as taking within 
the sphere of his vision a larger portion of the 
globe on which we tread, and discovering advan- 
tage at a greater distance on its surface. His de- 
sires or ambition, once excited, are stimulated by 
his imagination, and distant and uncertain objects 
giving freer scope to the operation of this faculty, 
often acquire in the mind of the youthful adven- 
turer an attraction from their very distance and 
uncertainty. If therefore a greater degree of in- 
struction be given to the peasantry of a country 
comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries inch in natural and acquired advantages, 
and if the barriers be removed that kept them se- 
parate, emigration from the former to the latter 
will take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly 
as uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself^ 
among surrounding bodies, or water finds its level 
when left to its natural course. By the articles 
of the Union the barrier Mas broken down which 
divided the two British nations, and knowledge 
and poverty poured the adventurous natives of 
the north, over the fertile plains of England, and, 
more especially, over the colonies which she had 
settled in the east and in the west. The stream 
of population continues to flow from the north to 
the south : for the causes that origirially impelled 
it continue to operate ; and the richer country is 
constantly invigorated by the accession of an in- 
ormed and hardy race of men, educated in po- 
verty, and prejiared for hardship and danger, pa- 
tient of labour, and prodigal of life. See Appen- 
dix, No. I. Note B. 

The jn-eachers of the reformation in Scotland 
were disciples of CaJ\in, and brought with them 
the temper as well as the tenets of that celebrated 
heresiarch. The presbyterian form of worship 
and of church government, was endeared to the 
people, from its being established by themselves. 
It was endeared to them also, by the struggle it 
had to maintain with the catholic and the protes- 
tant episcopal chui-ches, over both of which, after 
a hundred years of fierce and sometimes bloody 
contention, it finally triumphed, receiving the 
countenance of govermnent, and the sanction of 
law. During this long period of contention and 
of suffering, the temper of the people became 
more and more obstinate and bigutted, and the na- 
tion received that deep tinge of fanaticism which 
coloured their public transactions as well as their 
private virtues ; and of wiiich evident traces may 
be found in our own times. When the public 
schools were established, the instruction commui 
cated in them, partook of the religious character 
of the people. The catechism of the Westmii.ster 
divines was the universal school-book, and was 
put itito the hands of the young peasant as soon 
as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercise in the art of reading? intro- 
duced him to the most mysterious doctrines of the 
Christian faith. This practice is continued in our 
owri times. After the Assembly's Catechism, the 
Proverbs of Solomon, and the New and Old Tes- 
tament, follow in regular succession ; and the 
scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines ac- 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



wording to the intei-pretation of the Westminster 
confession of faith. Thus with the instruction of 
infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended 
the dogmas of the national church ; and hence 
the first and most constant exercise of ingenuity 
among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in 
religious disputation. With a strong attachment 
to the national creed, is conjoined a bigotted pre- 
ference of certain forms of worship ; the source 
of which would be often altogether obscure, if we 
did not recollect that the ceremonies of the Scot- 
tish church were framed in direct opposition, in 
every point, to those of the church of Rome. 

Tlie eccentricities of conduct, and singularities 
of opinion and manners, which characterized the 
English sectaries in the last century, afforded a 
subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose pic- 
' tures lose their interest, since their archetypes are 
lost. Some of the peculiarities common among 
the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in Scotland, 
in the present times, have given scope to the ridi- 
eule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butkr's, 
and whose drawings from living manners are sin- 
gularly expressive and exact. Unfortunately the 
correctness of his taste did not always correspcmd 
with the strength of his genius, and hence some 
of the most exquisite of his comic productions are 
rendered unfit for the light*. 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of Scotland promote scdateness 
of conduct, and habits of thought and reflection.— 
These good qualities are not counteracted by the 
establishment of poor-laws, which, while they re- 
ilect credit on the benevolence, detract from the 
ivisdom of the English legislature. To make a 
legal provision for the inevitable distresses of the 
poor, who, by age or disease, are rendered incapa- 
ble of labour, may indeed seem an indispensable 
duty of society ; and if, in the execution of a plan 
for this purpose, a distinction could be introduced, 
so as to exclude from its benefits those whose 
sufFeruigs are produced by idleness or profligacy, 
such an institution would perhaps be as rational as 
humane. But to lay a general tax on property 
for the support of poverty, from whatever cause 
proceeding, is a measure full of danger. It must 
operate iji a considerable degree as an incitement 
to idleness, and a discouragement to industry. It 
takes away from vice and indolence the prospect 
of their most dreaded consequences, and from vir- 
tue and industry their peculiar sanctions. In 
many cases it must render the rise in the price of 
labour, not a blessing, but a curse to the labourer; 
who, if there be an excess in what he earns, be- 
yond his immediate necessities, may be expected 
to devote this excess to his present gratification ; 
trusting to the provision made by law for his own 
and his family's support, should disease suspend, 
or death terminate his labours. Happily, in Scot- 
land, the same legislature which established a sys- 
tem of instruction for the poor, resisted the intro- 
duction of a legal provision for the support of 
poverty; what they granted on the one hand, and 

* Hi)ly IVUdc's Frn:jci- ; Rob ;lu: Rliymn-''s 
Welcome to his Bastard Child; Efmtle to J. Gon- 
dii; T/re Holy T nixie, &c. 



what they refused on the other, was equftlly fa- 
vourable to industry and good mor: Is ; aijd hence 
it will not appear surprizing, if the Scottish pea- 
santry have a more than usual share of prudence 
and reflection, if they approach nearer than per- 
sons of their order usually do, to the definition of 
a man, that of " a being that looks before and af- 
ter." These observations must indeed be taken 
with many exceptions— the favourable operation 
of the causes just mentioned, is counteracted by 
others of an opposite tendency, and the subject, 
if fully examined, would lead to discussions of 
great extent. 

When the reformation was established in Scot- 
land, instrumental music was banished from the 
churches, as savouring too much of " profane 
minstrelsy." Instead of being regulated by an 
instrument, the voices of the congregation are led 
and directed by a person under the name of a 
precentor, and the people are all expected to join 
in the tune which he chooses for the psalm \\ hich 
is to be sung. Church-music is therefoi-e a part 
of the education of the peasantry of Scotland, in 
which they are usually instructed in the long win- 
ter nights by the parish school-master, who is ge- 
nerally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers 
more celebrated for their powers of voice. This 
branch of education had, in the last reign, fallen 
into some neglect, but was revived about thirty 
or forty years ago, when the music itself was re- 
formed and improved. The Scottish system of 
])salmody is, however, radically bad. Destitute of 
Uxste or harmony, it forms a striking contrast 
with the delicacy and pathos of the j)rofane airs. 
Our poet, it will be found, was taught church- 
music, in Mhich, however, he made little profi- 
ciency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a 
part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, 
will surprize those who have only seen this des- 
cription of men ; and still more, those who reflect 
on the rigid spirit of Calvinism with which the 
nation is so deeply affected, and to which this re- 
creation is strongly abhorrent. The winter is 
also the season when they acquire dancing, and 
indeed almost all t4ieir other instruction. They 
are taught to dance by persons, generally of their 
own numbei-, many of whom work at daily labour 
during the sunnuer months. The school is usually 
a barn, and the arena for the performers is gene- 
rally a clay floor. The dome is lighted by candles 
stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the otiier end 
of which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strath- 
speys, country-dances, and hornpipes, are here 
practised. The jig, so much in favour among the 
English peasantry, has no place among them. 
The attachment of the people of Scotland of every 
rank, and particularly of the peasantry, to this 
amusement, is very great. After the lalxjurs of 
the day are over, young men and women walk 
many miles in the cold and dreary nights of win- 
ter, to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue 
seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect. 
his features brighten with sympathy ; every nerve 
seems to thrill with sensation, and every artery to 
vjlirate iritli ftfe. 'Ihese rustic performers are 



4i 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



indeed less to be admired for grace, than for agi- 
lit) and animation, and their accurate observance 
of time. Their modes of dancing, as well as thtir 
tunes, ai'e common to every rank in Scotland, and 
are now gent rally known. In our own day they 
ha\ e penetrated into England, and have establish- 
ed themstlvts even in the circle of royalty. In 
another generation they will be naturalized in 
everj' part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion 
for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured 
A»'ith thu spirit and doctnnt- s of Cah'in, is one of 
those contradictions vhich the pkilosophic ob- 
server so often finds in national character and 
manners. It is probably to be ascribed to the 
Scottish music, which, throughout all its varieties, 
is so fi'll of sensibility, and which, in its livtlier 
strains, awakes those vivid emotions, that find iji 
dancing their natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the 
spirit of the established religion, has not, however, 
been obtained without lo:;g-coi:tinutd and obsti- 
nate struggles. The numerous seetarits who dis- 
sent from the establishment on account of the re- 
laxation which they perceive, or think they per- 
ceive, in the church, from her original doctrijies 
and discipline, universally condemn the practice 
of dancing, and the schools where it is taught ; 
and the more elderly and serious part of the peo- 
ple of every persuasion, tolerate rather than ap- 
prove tliese meetings of the young of both sexes, 
■whtre dancing is practised to their spirit-siirring 
music, where care is dispelled, toil is foi'gotten, 
and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The reformation, which proved fatal to the rise 
of the other fine arts in Scotland, probably im- 
peded, but could not obstruct the progress of its 
music; a circumstance that will convince the im- 
partial inquirer, that this music not only existed 
previously to that aera, but had taken a firm hold 
of the nation ; thus affording a proof of its anti- 
quity stronger than any produced by the researches 
of our antiquai-ies. 

The impression which the Scottish music has 
jnade on the people, is deepened by its union with 
the natioi;al songs, of v\ hich various collections of 
unequal merit are before the public. These songs, 
like those of other nations, are many of them hu- 
morous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, and 
drinking. Love is the subject of the greater pro- 
portion. Without displaying the higher powers 
of the imagination, they exhibit a perfect know- 
ledge of the htiman heart, and breaiiie a spirit of 
aft'ection, and sometimes of delicate and romantic 
tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern poetry, 
and \\'hich the more polished sti'ains of antiquity 
have seldom possessed. 

Tlie origin of this amatory character in the 
vustic mr.se of Scotland, or of the greater numb«?r 
of these love-songs themselves, it would be difii- 
cult to trace ; they have accumulated in the silent 
lapse of time, and it is now perhaps in. jossible to 
give an arrangement of them in the order of their 
date, valuable as such a record of taste and man- 
ners would be. Their piesent influence on the 
character of the nation is, however, great and 
striking. To them we mvnf attribirte, in a great 



measure, the romantic passion which so ofteu 
characterizes the attachments of the liLimblest of 
the people of Scotland, to a degree, that, if we 
mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank of 
society in other countries. The pictures of love 
and happiness exliibited in their rural songs, are 
early nupressed on the mind of the peasant, and 
are rendered more attractive from the music with 
which they are united. They associate themselves 
with his own youthful emotions ; they elevate the 
object as well as the nature of his attachment ; 
and give to the impressions of sense, the beautiful 
colours of imagination. Hence in the coui'se of 
his passion, a Scottish peasaiit often exerts a spirit 
of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not 
be ashamed. After the labours of the day are 
ovei*, he sets out for the habitation of his mistress, 
perhaps at many miles distance, regardless of the 
length or the di-eariness of the way. He ap- 
proaches her in secrecy, under the disguise of 
night. A signal at the door or vriudow, perhaps 
agreed on, and understood by none but her, gives 
information of his ariival, and sometimes it is re- 
peated again and again, before the capricious fair 
one will obey the summons. But if she favours 
his addresses, she escapes unobserved, and receives 
the vows of her lover under the gloom of twi- 
light, or the deeper shade of night. Interviews 
of tliis kind are the subjects of many of the Scot- 
tish songs, some of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the art which 
they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; he knevT 
and had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse 
of this sort is, indeed, universal even in tlie hum- 
blest condition of man in every region of the 
earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose, that 
it may exist ii\ a greater degree, and in a more 
romantic form, among the peasantry of a country 
who are supposed to be more than commonly in- 
structed, who find in their rural songs, expression 
for their youthful emotions, and in whom the em- 
bers of passion are continually fanned by the 
breathings of a music full of tenderness and sen- 
sibility. The direct influence of physical causes 
on the attachment between the sexes, is compa- 
ratively small, but it is modified by moral causes 
bejond any other affection of the mind. Of these 
music and poetrj- are the chief. Among the snows 
of Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, 
the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and 
every where he beguiles the weariness of his jour- 
ney with poetry and song*. 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a 
eommuiiity, there is perhaps no single criterion on 
which so much dependence may be placed, as the 
state of the intercourse between the sexes. Where 
this displays ardour of attachment, accompanied 
by purity of conduct, the character and the influ- 
ence of women rise in society, our imperfect na- 
ture mounts in tlie scale of moral excellence, and 
from the source of this single affection, a streain 

* The North American Indians, among whom 
the attuchinejit betv. eeu the sexes is said to bf 
weak, and love in the purer sen^e of the word un- 
known, seeju nearly unacquainted with the charms 
of poetry and numc: Sec ll'dcP^- Tom:' 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



of felicity descends, which branches into a thou- 
sand rivulets that enrich and adorn the field of 
life. Where the attachment between the sexes 
sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species 
is comparatively poor, and jnan appi'oaches the 
condition of the brutes that perish. " If we could 
vith safety indulge the pleasing supposition that 
Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung*," Scotland, 
judging from this criterion, might be considered 
as ranking high in happiness and virtue, in very 
remote ages. To appreciate her situation by the 
same criterion in our own times, would be a deli- 
cate and a difficult undertaking. After consider- 
ing the probable influence of her popular songs, 
and her national music, and examining how far 
the effects to be expected from these are supported 
by facts, the inquirer would also have to examine 
the influence of other causes, and particularly of 
her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by which 
the character, and even the manners of a people, 
though silently and slowly, are often powerfully 
conti'ouled. In the point of new in which we are 
considering the subject, the ecclesiastical estab- 
lishments of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly 
favourable to purity of conduct. The dissoluteness 
of manners among the catholic clergy, which pre- 
ceded, and in some measure produced the refor- 
mation, led to an extraordinary strictness on the 
pait of the reformers, and especially in that par- 
ticular in which the licentiousness of the clergy 
had been carried to its greatest height— the inter- 
course between the sexrs. On this point, as on 
all others connected with austerity of maimers, 
the disciples of Cahin assumed a greater severity 
than those of the protestant episcopal chui-ch. 
The punishment of illicit connexion between the 
sexes, was, throughout all Europe, a province 
which the clergy assumed to themselves, and the 
ehurch of Scotland, which at the reformation re- 
nounced so many powers and prinleges, at that 
period took this crime under her more especial 
jurisdiction t. Where pregnancy takes place with- 
out marriage, the condition of the female causes 
the discover)-, and it is on her, therefoi-e, in the 
first instance, that the clergy and elders of the 
church exercise their zeal. After examination be- 
fore the kirk-session, touching the circumstances 
of her guilt, she must endure a public penance, 
and sustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for 
three sabbaths successively, in the face of the 
congregation to which she belongs, and thus have 
her weakness exposed, and her shame blazoned. 
The sentence is the same with respect to the male ; 
but how much lighter the punishment I It is well 
known that tliis dreadful law, worthy of the iron 
minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to 
consequences, at the very mention of which hu- 
man nature recoils .' 

While the punishment of incontinence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland is severe, 
the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding 
it, aftbrded them by the law respecting marriage, 
the validity of which requires neither the cere- 
monies of the church, nor any other ceremonies, 
but simply the deliberate acknowledgment of each 



Gibl)on. 



t Sec Appendix; No. I. Nofe C. 



other as husband and wife, made by the parties 
before witnesses, or in any other way that gives 
legal ev-idence of such an acknowledgment having 
taken place. And as the parties themselves fix 
the date of their marriage, an opportunity is thus 
given to avoid the punishment, and repair the 
consequences of illicit gratification. Such a de- 
gree of laxity respecting so serious a contract, 
might produce much confusion in the descent of 
property, without a still farther indulgence ; but 
the law of Scotland legitimating all childr^^n born 
before wedlock, on the subsequent marriage of 
their parents, renders the actual date of the mar- 
riage itself, of little consequence*. Marriages 
contracted in Scotland without the ceremonies of 
the church, ai-e considered as irregular, and the 
parties usually submit to a rebuke for their con- 
duct in the face of their respective congregations, 
which is not, however, necessary to render the 
marriage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will 
appear, was irregular, does not seem to have un- 
dergone this part of the discipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are 
in many jiartieulars favourable to a conduct 
among the peasantry founded on foresight and re- 
flection, on the subject of marriage the reverse of 
this is true. Irregular marriages, it may be na- 
turally supposed, are often improvident ones, in 
whatever rank of society they occur. The chil- 
dren of such marriages, poorly endowed by tlieir 
parents, find a certain degree of instruction of 
easy acquisition ; but the comforts of life, and the 
gratifications of ambition, they find of more diffi- 
cult attainment in their native soil ; and thus the 
marriage laws of Scotland conspire with other 
circumstances, to produce that habit of emigra- 
tion, and spirit of adventure, for which the people 
are so remarkable. 

The manners and ai)pearance of the Scottish 
peasantry do not bespeak, to a stranger, the degi-ee 
of their cultivation. In their own country, their 
industry is inferior to that of tlie same description 
of men in the southern dinsion of the island. In- 
dustry and the useful arts reached Scotland later 
than England ; and though their advance has been 
rapid there, the effects produced are as yet far in- 
ferior, both in reality and in appearance. The 
Scottish farmers have in geiieral neither the oj»u- 
lence nor the comforts of those of England, nei- 
ther vest the same capital in the soil, nor receive 
from it the same return. Their clothing, their 
food, and their habitations, are almost every where 
inferiorf. Their appearance in these respects 
corresponds with the appearance of their country ; 
and under the operation of patient industry, both 
are improving. Industry and the useful arts 
came later into Scotland than iuto England, be- 
cause the security of property came later. Wiih 
causes of internal agitation ami warfare, similju- 

* See Appendijc, Nu. 1. Note D. 

f These remarks are confined to (he class of 
farmers; the same corresponding inferiority a\ ill 
not be found in the condition of »he cottagers and 
lal)ourcrs, at least in the article of food, as thosi; 
who examine this subject impnrttalTj' witl soon 
discover. 



PllEFATOJlY ttE^JABK^. 



tp those V'h'ch occurred to the mpre southern na- 
tion, the people of Scotlar.d were exposed to more 
imminent hazards, and more extensive and de- 
structive spoliation, from external war. Occupi- 
ed in the maintenance of tlieir independence 
against their more powerful neighbours, to this 
■were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and 
at certain periods the flower of their population. 
And when the union of the crowns produced a 
security from national wars with England, for the 
century succeeding, the civil wars common to 
lioth divisions of the island, and the dependence, 
perhaps the necessary dependence, of the Scottish 
councils on those of the more powerful kingdom, 
counteracted this advantage. Even the union of 
the British nations was not, from obvious causes, 
immediately followed by all the benefits Avhicli it 
•vvas ultimately destijied to produce. At length, 
Jiowever, these benefits are distinctly felt, and ge- 
nerally acknowledged. Property is secure ; ma- 
nufactures and commerce increasing ; and agricul- 
ture is rapidly improving in Scotland. As yet in- 
deed the farmers are not in general enabled to 
make improvements out of their own capitals, as 
in England ; but the land-holders, who have seen 
and felt the advantages resulting from them, con- 
tribute towards them with a liberal hand. Hence 
property as well as population is accumulating ra- 
l)idly on the Scottish soil ; and the nation, enjoy- 
ing a great part of the blessings of Englishmen, 
and retaining several of their own happj- institu- 
tions, might be considered, if confidence could be 
placed in human foresight, to be as yet only in an 
early stage of their progress. Yet there are ob- 
structions in their way. To the cultivation of 
the soil, are opposed the extent and the strictness 
of the entails ; to the improvement of the i)eople, 
the rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a 
detestable practice, which includes in its conse- 
quences almost every evil, physical and moral*. 
The ijeeuliarly social ilispositiou of the Scottish 
peasantry exposes them to this practice. This 
disposition, which is fostered by their national 
songs and music, is perhaps characteristic of the 
nation at large. Though the source of many 
pleasures, it counteracts by its consequences the 
effects of their patience, industry, and frugality, 
both at home and abroad, of which those especial- 
ly who have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen 
in other countries, must have known many strik- 
ing instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language of 
the people of Scotland have no longer a standard 
among themselves, but are tried by the standard 
of the nation to which they are united.—Though 
thtir habits are far from being flexible, yet it is 
evident that their manners and dialect are under- 
going a rapid change. Even the farmers of the 
present day. appear to have less of the peculiari- 

* The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
Scotland, is now upwards of 250,000/. annually. 
In 1777, it did not reach 8000/. The rate of the 
duty has indeed been raised, but, making every al- 
lowance, the increase of consumption must be 
enormous. This is independent of the duty on 
malt, &c., malt-linnor, inijiovted si)irits, and wine. 



ties of their country i^i their spe.ech, than the men 
of letters of the last generation. Burns, who ne- 
ver left the island, nor penetrated farther into 
England than Carlisle on the one hand, or New- 
castle on the other, had. less of the Scottish dialect 
than Hume, who lived for many years in the best 
society of England and France ; or perhaps than 
Hobertson, who wrote the English language in a 
style of such purity; and if he had been in other 
respects fitted to take a lead in the British House 
of Commons, his pronunciation would neither 
have fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its 
due eflTect. 

A sti-iking particular in the character of the 
Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped will 
not be lost— the strength of their domestic attach- 
ments. The privations to which many parents 
submit for the good of their children, and parti- 
cularly to obtain for them instruction, which they 
consider as the chief good, has already been no- 
ticed. If their children live and prosper, they 
have their certain reward, not merely as witness- 
ing, but as sharing of their prosperity. Even in 
the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earnings 
of the children may generally be considered as at 
the disposal of their parents ; pei-hajis in no coun- 
trj', is so large a portion of the wages of labour 
applied to the support and comfort of those 
whose days of labour are past. A similar sti-ength 
of attachment extends through all the domestic 
relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable cha- 
racteristic of his humble compeers ; he wj^s also 
strongly tinctured with another striking feature 
which belongs to them, a partiality for his native 
country, of which many proofs may be found la 
his writings. This, it must be confessed, is a very 
strong and general sentiment among the natives 
of Scotland, differing however in its character, ac- 
cording to the character of the different minds in 
wliich it is found ; in some appearing a selfish 
prejudice, in others a generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth, is in- 
deed common to all men. It is found among the 
inhabitants of every region of the earth, from the 
arctic to the antarctic circle, in all the vast variety 
of climate, of surface, and of civilization. To 
analize this general sentiment, to trace it through 
the mazes of association up to the ijrimary aff*ec- 
tion in which it has its source, would neither be a 
difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On a first 
consideration of the subject, we should perhaps 
expect to find this attachment strong in propor- 
tion to the physical advantages of the soil ; but 
inquiry, far from confirming this supposition, 
seems rather to lead to an opposite conclusion.— 
In those fertile regions, where beneficent nature 
yields almost spontaneously whatever is necessary 
to human wants, patriotism, as well as every other 
generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In 
countries less richly endowed, where the comforts, 
and even necessaries of life, must be purchased 
by patient toil, the affections of the mind, as w^ell 
as the faculties of the understanding, improve un- 
der exertion, and patriotism flourishes amidst its 
kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to combine 
for mutual defence, as well as for the supply of 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



common wants, mutual good-will springs from mu- 
tual difficulties and labours, the social affections 
unfold thejuselvt s, and extend from the men with 
•whom we live, lo the soil on which we tread. It 
■will perhaps be found, indeed, that our affections 
cannot be originally called foith but by objects 
capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our senti- 
ments, and of returning them : but when once ex- 
cited, they are strengthened by exercise, they are 
expanded by the powers of imagination, and seize 
more especially ojj those inanimate parts of crea- 
tion, which form the theatre on which we have 
first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, and 
first tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. If 
this reasoning be just, the love of our country, al- 
though modified, and even extinguished in indiW- 
duals by the chances and changes of life, may be 
presumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong 
among a people, in proportion to their social, and 
more especially to their domestic affections. In 
free goveriunents it is found more active than in 
despotic ones, because, as the indiA-idual becomes 
of more consequence in the community, the com- 
munity becomes of more consequence to him ; in 
small states it is generally more active than in 
large ones, for the same reason, and also because 
the independence of a small community being 
maintained with difficulty, and frequently endan- 
gered, sentiments of patriotism are more frequent- 
ly excited. In mountainous countries it is gene- 
rally found more active than in plains, because 
there the necessities of life often require a closer 
union of the inhabitants ; and more especially 
because in such countries, though less populous 
than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scat- 
tered equally over the whole, are usually divided 
into small communities on the sides of their sepa- 
rate valleys, and on the banks of their respective 
streams ; situations well calculated to call forth 
and to concentrate the social affections, amidst 
scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, 
and makes a lasting impression on the memory. 
It may also be remarked, that mountainous coun- 
tries are often peculiarly calculated to nourish 
sentiments of national pride and independence, 
from the influence of history on the affections of 
the mind. In such countries, from their natural 



strength, inferior nations have maintained their in- 
dependence against iheir more powerful neigh- 
bours, and valour, in all ages, has made its most 
successful efforts against oppression. Sucli coun- 
tries present the fields of battle, where the tide 
of invasion was rolled back, and where the ashes 
of those rest who have died in defence of their 
nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we have 
mentioned, is doubtless more general and more 
permanent, where ihe scenery of a country, the 
peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and the mar- 
tial achievements of their ancestors, are embodied 
in national songs, and united to national music. 
Uy this combination the ties that attach meJi to 
the land of their birth, are multiplied and strength- 
ened ; and the images of infancy, strongly associ- 
ating with the generous affections, resist the influ- 
ence of time, and of new impressions ; tliey often 
survive in countries far distant, and amidst far 
different scenes, to the latest pexnods of life, to 
soothe the heart with the pleasures of memory, 
when those of hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us 
why, among the natives of Scotland, even of cul- 
tivated minds, we so generally find a partial at* 
tachment to the laud of their birth, and why this 
is so strongly discoverable in the writings of 
Burns, who joined to the higher powers of the un- 
derstanding, the most ardent affections. Let not 
men of reflection think it a superfluous labour to 
trace the rise and progress of a character like his. 
Born in the condition of a peasant, he rose by the 
force of his mind into distinction and influence 
and in his works has exhibited what are so rarely- 
found, the charms of original genius. With a deep 
insight into the human heart, his poetry exhibits 
high powers of imagination ; it displays, and as it 
were embalms, the peculiar manners of his coun- 
try ; and it may be considered as a monument not 
to his own name only, but to the expiring genius 
of an ancient and once independent nation. In 
relating the incidents of his life, candour will 
prevent us from dwelling invidiously on those fail- 
ings which justice forbids us to conceal; we will 
tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, and respect 
fhe laurels that shelter hrs nntimely gi'ave. 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Robert burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards him- 
self a farmer there ; but having- been unsuccess- 
ful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He 
had previously, however, attracted some notice by 
his poetical talents in the vicinity where he lived, 
and having published ;) small volume of his poems 
at Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more general 
attention. In consequence of the encouragement 
he received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and there 
published by subscription an improved and en- 
larged edition of his poems, which met with ex- 
ti'aordinary success. By the profits arising from 
the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter on 
a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a 
person to whom he had been long attached, he re- 
tired, to devote the remainder of his life to agri- 
culture. He was again, however, unsuccessful, 
and, abandoning liis farm, he i-emoved into the 
town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office 
in the excise, and where he terminated his life in 
July, 1796, in his thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius pro- 
cured him the notice of many persons distinguish- 
ed in the republic of letters, and among oti'.ers, 
that of Dr. Moore, well known for his Vleivs of 
Society and Maimers on the Continent of Europe, 
for his Zeluco, and various other works. To this 
gentleman our poet addressed a letter, after his 
first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of his 
life, uj> to the period of his writing. In a compo- 
sition never intended to see the light, elegance or 
perfect correctness of composition will not be ex- 
pected. These, however, will be compensated by 
the opportunity of seeing our poet, as he gives 
the incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities of 
his character, with all the careless vigour and 
«pen sincerity of his mind. 

" Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 
" Sir, 

*' For some months past I have been rambling 
•ver the country, but I am now confined with 
some lingei-ing complaints, originating, as I take 
it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little 
in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a 
whim to give you a history of myselt". My name 
has made some little noise in this country ; you 
have done me the honour to uiterest youi-sclf very 



warmly in my behalf; and I think a fuithful ao- 
count of what character of a man I aui, and how 
I came by that character, may p- rhaps amuse you 
in an idle moment. I will give you an honest 
narrative, though I know it will be often at my 
own expense ; for I assure you, sir, I have, like 
Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trilling 
affair of 7visdom, I sometimes think I resemble, I 
have, I say, like him turned my eyes to behold 
madness and folly, and like him too, frequently 
shaken hands with their ijitoxicaiing friendship, 
• * • After you have perused these pages, 
should you think them trifling and impertinent, I 
only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author 
wrote them under some twitching qualms of con- 
science, arising from a suspicion that he was do-, 
ing what he ought not to do ; a predicament he 
has moi-e than once been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to as-> 
sume that character which the pye-coattd guar- 
dians of escutcheons call a gentlejnan. When at 
Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the 
herald's office, and looking through that granary 
of honours, I there found almost every name of 
the kingdom ; but for me, 

' My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood/ 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, ilie 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early misfor- 
tunes on the world at large ; where, after many- 
years wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a 
pretty large quantity of observation and expi ri- 
ence, to which I am indebted for most of my little 
pretensions to wisdom.— 1 have met with few who 
understood 7nen, their manners, and their ivays, 
equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, 
and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are dis- 
qualifying circumstances ; consequently I was 
born a very poor man's son. For the fii-st six or 
seven years of my life, my father was gardener to 
a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neigh- 
bourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that sta- 
tion, I must have marched oif to be one of the 
little underlings about a fai-m-house ; but it was 
his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power 
to keep his children under his own eye. till they 
B 



10 



LIFE OF 



could discern between good and evil ; so with the 
assistance of his generous master, my father ven- 
tured on a small farm on his estate. At those 
years I was by no means a favourite with any 
bodj. I was a good deal noted for a retentive 
memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my dis- 
position, and an enthusiastic ideot* piety.— I say 
icleot piety, because I was then but a child. 
Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, 
I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the 
time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a 
critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my 
infant and bojish days too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable for 
her ignorance, credulity, and supei'stition. She 
had, I suppose, the largest collection in the coun- 
try of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, 
fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kel- 
pies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, 
cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and 
other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds 
of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my ima- 
gination, that, to this hour, in my nocturnal ram- 
bles, I sometimes keep a sharp look out in suspi- 
cious places ; and though nobody can be more 
sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often 
takes an eftbrt of philosophy to shake off these 
idle terrors. The earliest composition that I re- 
collect taliing pleasure in, was The Vision of Mir- 
za, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, Hoxv are 
thij Servafits blest, Lord! I particularly re- 
member one half-stanza which was music* to my 
boyish ear— 

' For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave.—" 

1 met with these pieces in Mason's English Collec- 
tion, one of my school-books. The two first books 
I ever read in private, and whicJi gave me more 
pleasure than any two books I ever read since, 
were, The Life of Hannibal, and The History of 
Sir JVilliani Wallace. Hannibal gave my young 
ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures 
lip and down after the recruiting drum and bag- 
pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 
wliile the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- 
judice into my veins, which will boil along there, 
till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

" Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the ^country half mad, and I, ambitious of 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c., used, a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much 
heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
of lieresy against me, which has not ceased to this 
hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to 
me. INfy social disposition, when not checked by 
some modifications of spited pride, was, like our 
catechism definition of infinitude, ivithout bounds 
or limits. I formed stveral connexions with other 
younkers who possessed superior advantages ; the 
youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal 
of parts in which they w ere shortly to appear on 

* Ideot for ideotic. 



the stage of life, where, alas ! 1 was destined ta 
drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this green age, that our young gentiy have a just 
sense of the immense distance between them and 
their ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes 
into the world, to give the young great man that 
proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the pooi*, 
insignificant stupid devils, the mechanics and pea- 
santry around him, who were perhaps born in the 
same village. My young superiors never insulted 
the clouterly appearance of my plough-boy car- 
case, the two extremes of which were often ex- 
posed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. 
They would give me stray volumes of books ; 
among them, even then, I could pick up some ob- 
servations, and one, whose heart I am sure not 
even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, help- 
ed me to a little French. Parting with these my 
young friends and benefactors, as they occasion- 
ally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- 
ten to me a sore affliction, but I was soon called 
to more serious evils. My father's generous mas- 
ter died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargaiu ; and 
to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of 
a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of 
one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. My father was ad- 
vanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest 
of seven children, and he, worn out by early hard- 
ships, was unfit for labour. My father's spirit 
was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There 
was a freedom in liis lease in two years more, and 
to weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous 
ploughman for my age ; and tlie next eldest to me 
was a brother (Gilbert), who could drive the plough 
very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A no- 
vel-writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes 
with some satisfiiction, but so did not I ; my in- 
dignation yet boils at the recollection of the 

s 1 factor's insolent threatening letters, which 

used to set us all in tears. 

" This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to ray sixteenth year ; a little before 
which pe.iod I first committed the sin of rhyme. 
You know our country cusrom of coupling a man 
and woman togetlier as partners in the labours of 
harvest. In my fifteentJi autumn, my partner was 
a bewitchijig creature, a year younger than my- 
self. My scarcity of English denies me the power 
of doing her justice in that language, but you 
know the Scottish idiom ; she was a bonnie, sweet, 
sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether unwittingly 
to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, 
wiiich, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse 
prudence, and book-worra philosophy, I hold to be 
the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below I How she caught the contagion I cannot 
tell ; you medical people talk much of infection 
from breathing the same air, the touch, &c., but I 
never expressly said I loved her.— Indeed I did 
not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evening 
from our laboui's ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart-strings thrill like an jEulian harp ; 
and particularly why my pulse beat sudi a furious 
ratan when I looked and fingered over her little 



ROBERT BURNS. 



band to pick out the citiel nettle-stings and this- 
tles. Among- her other love-inspiring qualities, 
she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel to 
which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 
i-hj me. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
that I could make verses like printed ones, com- 
posed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but ray 
girl sung a song which was said to be composed 
by a small counti-j^ laird's son, on one of his fa- 
ther's maids, with whom he was in loVe ; and I 
saw no reason why I might not rhj lue as well as 
he ; for excepting that he could smear sheep, and 
cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he 
had no more scholar-craft than myself*. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry; whicl" 
at times have been my only, and till within the 
last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- 
ment. My father struggled on till he reached the 
freedom in his lease, wlien he entered on a larger 
farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The 
nature of the bargain he made, was such as to 
throw a little ready money into his hands at the 
eommencement of his lease, otherwise the affair 
would have been impracticable. For four years 
we lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord as to terms, 
after three years tossing and whirling in the vor- 
tex of litigation, my father was just saved from 
the horrors of a jail, by a consumption, which, af- 
ter two years promises, Idndly stepped in, and car- 
lied him away, to where the rvicked cease from 
troubUng, and 7vhere the weary are at rest! 

" It is during the time that we lived on this 
fann, that my little story is most eventful. I was, 
at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most 
ungainly awkward boy in the parish— no solitaire 
was less acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered from 
Sa/noji^s and Guthrie''s geographical grammars; 
and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of 
literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. 
These, with Pofje^s Works, some plays of Shakes- 
peare, Tiill and Dickson on Agriculture, The Pan- 
theon, Locke''s Essay on the Human Understand- 
ing, Stackhoiise\ History of the Bible, Justice^s 
British Gardener''s Directory, Bayle^ Lectures, 
Allan Bamsaifs JVorks, Taijlor^s Scripture Doc- 
trine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of Eng- 
lish Songs, and Hervey''s Meditations, had formed 
the whole of my reading. The collection of songs 
was my vade mecum. I pored over tlum dri\nng 
my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am con- 
vinced I owe to this practice, much of my critic- 
craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a counti*y dancing-school.— My 
fiither had an unaccountable antipathy against 
these meetings, and my going was what to this 
moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My 
father, as I said before, was subject to strong pas- 
sions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, 
he took a sort of dislike to me, which I believe 
was one cause of the dissipation which marked my 

* See Appendix, No, II. Note A. 



succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively 
with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity ol" 
presbyterian country life ; for though the will-o- 
wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
witlxin the line of innocence. The great misfor- 
tune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt 
early some stirrings of ambition, but they were 
the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the 
walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation en- 
tailed on me perpetual labour. The only two 
openings by which I could enter the temple of 
fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or 
the path of little chicaning bargain-making. I'he 
first is so contracted an aperture I never could 
squeeze myself into it— the last I always hated- 
there was contamination in the very enti-ance ! 
Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a 
strong appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity, as from a pride of observation and re- 
mark; a constitutional melancholy or h)pochon- 
driasm that made me fly solitude ; add to tliese in- 
centives to social life, my reputation for bookish 
knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudiments 
of good sense, and it will not seem surprizing that 
I was generally a welcome guest whei'e I visited, 
or any great wonder that always where two or 
thi-ee met together, there was I among them. But 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
nn penchant h I'adorable moitie du geni-e humain. 
My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally 
lighted up by some goddess or other; and as in 
every other warfare in this world, my fortune was 
vaiious ; sometimes I was received with favour, 
and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At 
the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared e.o com- 
petitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiai ee ; 
and as I never cared farther for my labours than 
while I was in actual exercise, I spent the even- 
ings in the way after my own heart. A country 
lad seldom carries on a love-adventure without an 
assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as a 
proper second on tliese occasions ; and I dare say, 
I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of 
half the lovi s of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever 
did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
courts of Europe.— llie very goose-feather in my 
hand seems to know instinctively the well-worn 
path of my imagii ation, the favourite theme of juy 
song; and it is with difficulty restrained from giv- 
ing you a couple of paragraphs on the love-adven- 
tures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the 
farm-house and cottage ; but the grave sons of 
science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things 
by the name of Follies. To the sons and daugh- 
ters of labour and poverty they are matters of the 
most serious nature ; to them the ardent hope, the 
stolen interview, the tender farewel, are the 
greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoy- 
ments. 

" Another circumstance in my life which made 
some alteration in my mind and manners, was, 
that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- 
gling coast, a good distance from home, at a noti^ 



lii 



Lit? E OF 



school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, 
&c., in which I made a pretty good progress. But I 
made a greater progre ss in the knowledge of man- 
kind. The contraband trade was at that time very 
successful, aiid it sometimes happened to me to fall 
in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swag- 
gering riot and roaring dissipation were till this 
time new to me, but I was no enemy to social 
life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to 
mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I 
•went on with a high hand with my geometry ; till 
the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
cariiival in my bosom, when a charming JiUette, 
■who lived next door to the school, overset ray tri- 
gonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the 
sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on 
with my sines and co-sines for a few days more; 
but stepping into the garden one charming noon 
tp take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel 

' Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 
Herself a fairer flower—' 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid I did 
nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about 
her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last 
nights of my stay in the countiy, had sleep been a 
mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent 
girl had kept me guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very important 
addition of Thomson's and Shenstoue's Works ; I 
had SL-en human nature in a new phasis ; and I 
engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up a 
literarj- correspondence with me. I'his improved 
me in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of queen Anne's reign, and I 
pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of 
any of my ovni letters that pleased me, and a 
comparison between them and the composition of 
most of my correspondents, flattered my vanity. I 
carried this whim so far, that though I had not 
three farthings worth of business in the world, yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters as 
if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book 
and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same course 
till ray twenty-third year. Vive Vamour et vive 
la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. 
The addition of two more authors to my library 
gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and M'Kenzie— 
Tristram Shandy and The Man of Feeling were 
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling 
"vvalk for my mind, but it was only indulged in ac- 
cording to the humour of the hour. I had usually 
half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up 
one or other as it suited the momentary tone of 
the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered 
on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, 
raged like so many devils, till they got vent in 
rhyme; and then the conning over my verses, 
like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the 
rhymes of those days are in print, except JVinter, 
a Dirge*, the eldest of my printed pieces ; The 

* See Poems. 



Death of poor Maillie*, John Barleycorn*, and 
songs first, second, and third*. Song second was 
the ebulUtion of that passion which ended the fore- 
mentioned school-business. 

'• My twenty-third year was to me an important 
sera. Partly through whim, and partly that I 
wished to set about doing something in life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town 
(Irvin) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky 
affair. My * * * and to finish the whole, as we 
were gi^'ing a welcome carousal to the new year, 
the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was 
left like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head : and, what was worst of all, he 
was visibly far gone in a consumption; and to 
crown my distresses, a belle Jille, whom I adored, 
and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the 
field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar cir- 
cumstances of mortification. The finisliing evil 
that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was 
my constitutional melancholy being ijicreased to 
such a degree, that, for three months, I was in a 
state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hope- 
less wretches who have got their imX.t.im\xs— depart 
from me, ije cursed. 

" From tliis adventure I learned something of 
a town life ; but the principal tiling which gave 
my mind a turn, was a friendship 1 formed with 
a young fellow, a very noble character, but a liap- 
less son of misfoitune. He was the son of a sim- 
ple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbour- 
hood taking him und^r lii» patronage, gave him a 
genteel education, with a \\t\\ of bettering his 
situation in life. The patron dying just as he was 
ready to launch out into the world, the poor fel- 
low in despair went to sea ; where, after a variety 
of good and ill fortune, a little before I was ac- 
quainted with hint, he had been set on shore, by an 
American privateer, on the wild coast of Con- 
naught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit 
this poor fellow's story without adding, that he is 
at this time master of a large West-Indiamau be- 
loiiging to the Thames. 

'• His mind w as fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and aibnired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some measure 
I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it 
to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the 
world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all 
attention to learn. He was the only man I ever 
saw, who was a greater fool than myself, where 
woman was the presiding star; but he spoke of 
illicit love with the le\ ity of a sailor, which hi- 
therto I had regarded with horror. Here his 
friendship did me a mischief, and the conse- 
quence was, that soon after I resumed the plough, 
I wrote the Poet's JVclcomef. My reading only 
increased while in this town by two stray volumes 
of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, ex- 



* Sec Poems. 
t ^ob the Rhiimer''s 
CMldi 



Welcome to his BastarS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



lis 



«ept some religpioiis pieces that are in print, I liad 
fiven up ; but meeting with Fergusson'^s Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew m) wildly-sounding lyre 
with emulating vigour. When my father died, 
his all went among the hell-hounds that growl in 
the kennel of Justice ; but we made a shift to col- 
lect a little money in the family amongst us, with 
■which, to keep us togetlier, my brother and I took 
a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my 
hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and 
amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every 
•sober qualification, he was far my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
eovie, go to, I will be ivise ! I read farming-books ; 
I calculated ci-ops ; I attended markets ; and, in 
short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and tlie 
Jlesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; 
but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad 
seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost half 
our crops. This overset all my v.'isdom, and I re- 
turned like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that 
was ivashed, to her wallowing in the mire*. 

" I now began to be knowji in the neighbour- 
hood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poe- 
tic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis persona; in my 
Holy Fair, I had a notion myself, that the piece 
had son\e merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave 
a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of 
such things, and told him that I could not guess 
who was the author of it, but that I thought it 
pretty clever. With a certain description of the 
clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of ap- 
plause. Holy Willie''s Prayer next made its ap- 
pearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, 
Aat they held several meetings, to look over their 
spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be 
pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for 
me, my wanderings led me on another side, within 
point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is 
the unfortunate story that gave rise to my print- 
ed poem, T]ie Lament. This was a most melan- 
choly affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, 
and had very nearly given me one or two of the 
principal qualifications for a place among those 
who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reck- 
oning of Rationalityt. I gave up my part of the 
farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nomi- 
nally mine ; and made what little preparation Avas 
in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving 
my native country for ever, I resolved to publish 
my poems. I weighed my productions as impar- 
tially as was in my power ; I thought they had 
merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should 
be called a clever fellow, even though it should 
never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — or per- 
haps a victim to that inhos2)itable clime, and gone 
to the world of spirits ! I can truly say that, 
pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty near- 
ly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I 
have at this moment, when the public has decided 
in their favour. It ever was my opinion, that the 

• * See Appendix, No. II. Note B. 

t An explanation of tlfis witt be foutid here- 
after. 



mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- 
gious point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves.— To know myself had been all along 
my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I 
balanced myself with others ; I watched every 
means of information, to see how much ground I 
occiipied as a man and as a poet : I studied assi- 
duously nature's design in my formation ; where 
the lights and shades of my character were in- 
tended. I was pretty confident my poems would 
meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voict of 
censure, and the novelty of West-Indian scenes 
make me forgit neglect. I threw of six hundred 
copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about 
three hundi'Ld and fift).— My vanity was highly 
gratified by the reception I met with from the 
public ; and besides, I pocketed, all expeiises de- 
ducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came 
very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting 
myself, for want of money to procure my pas- 
sage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, 
the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took 
a steerage passage in the first ship that was t© 
sail from the Clyde, for, 

' Hungry ruin had me in the wind.' 

" I had been for some days skulking from co- 
vert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as 
some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merci- 
less pack of the law at my heels. I had taken 
the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was 
on the road to G reenock ; I had composed the last 
song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The 
gloomy night is gathering fast*, when a letter 
from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, over- 
threw all my schemes, by opening new prospects to 
my poetic ambitiont. The doctor belonged to a set 
of critics, for whose applause I had not dared to 
hope. His opinion, that I would meet with en- 
couragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, 
fired me so much, that away I posted for that 
city, without a single acquaintance, or a single 
letter of introduction. The baneful star that had 
so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, 
for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a_ 
kind providence placed me under the patronage 
of one of the jioblest of men, the earl of Glen- 
cairn. Oublic-moi, grand Dieu, si Jamais je V 
oublie ! 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I 
was all attention to catch the characters and the 
manners living as they rise. Whether I have 
profited, time will show. 



" My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot an- 



See Poems. t Sc>^ General Correspondence^ 



No. 7. 



u 



LIFE OF 



swer at present, as my presence is requisite in 
Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow*." 

At the period of our poet's death, his brother, 
Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had himself 
written the foregoing narrative of his life while 
in Ayrshire ; and ha\ang been applied to by Mrs. 
Dunlop for some memoirs of his brother, he com- 
plied with her request in a letter, from which the 
following narrative is chiefly extracted. When 
Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the letter of our 
poet to Dr. Moore, he made some annotations 
upon it, which shall be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of Ja- 
nuary, 1759, in a small house, about two miles 
from the town of Ajt, and within a few hundred 
yards of AUoway church, which his poem of Tarn 
o''Shanter has rendered immortalt. The name 
which the poet and his brother modernized into 
Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. Their 
father, William Burnes, was the son of a farmer 
in Kincardineshire, and had received the educa- 
tion common in S(Cotland to persons in his condi- 
tion of life ; he could read and write, and had 
some knowledge of arithmetic. His family having 
fallen into reduced circumstances, he was com- 
pelled to leave his home in his nineteenth year, 
and turned his steps towards the south, in quest 
of a livelihood. The same necessity attended his 
elder brother Robert. " I have often heard my 
father," says Gilbert Burns, in liis letter to Mrs. 
Dunlop, " describe the anguish of mind he felt 
when they parted on the top of a hill, on the con- 
fines of their native place, each going off his se- 
veral way in seai-cli of new adventures, and 
scarcely knowing whither he went. My father 
undertook to act as a gardener, and shaped his 
coiu'se to Edinburgh, where he wrought hard 
when he could get work, passing through a varie- 
ty of difliculties. Still, however, he endeavoured 
to spare something for the support of his aged pa- 
rent, and I recollect hearing him mention his 
having sent a bank-note for this purpose, when 
money of that kind was so scarce in Kincardine- 
shire, that they scarcely knew how to employ it 
when it arrived." From Edinburgh, William 
Burnes passed westward into the county of Ajt, 
where he engaged himself as a gardener to the 
laird of Fairly, with whom he lived two years, 
tlien changing his service for that of Crawford of 
Doonside. At length being desirous of settling in 
life, he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of 

* There are various copies of this letter, in the 
author's hand-writing ; and one of these, evidently 
corrected, is in the book in which he had copied 
several of his letters. This has been used for the 
press, with some omissions, and one slight altera- 
tion suggested by Gilbert Burns. 

t This house is on the right hand side of the 
road from Ayr to May-bole, which forms a part of 
the road from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When 
the poet's father afterwards removed to Tarbol- 
ton parish, he sold his lease-hold right in tliis 
house and a few acres of land adjoining, to the 
corporation of slioe-makers in Ayr. It is now a 
country ale-house. 



land from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with 
the view of commencing nursery-man and public 
gardener ; and having built a house upon it with 
his own hands, married, in December, 1757, Agnes 
Brown, the mother of our poet, who still survives. 
The first fruit of tliis marriage was Robert, the" 
subject of these memoirs, born on the 25th of Ja- 
nuary, 1759, as has already been mentionc-d. Be- 
fore William Burnes had made much progress in 
preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from 
that undtrrtaking by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased 
the estate of Doonholm, in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, and engaged him as liis gai*dener and 
overseer; and this was his situation when our 
poet was born. Though in the service of Mr. 
Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his wife ma- 
naging her family and her little dairy, which 
consisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three 
milch cows ; and this state of unambitious con- 
tent continued till the year 1766. His son Robert 
was sent by him in his sixth year to a school at 
Alloway Mihi, about a mile distant, taught by a 
person of the name of Campbell ; but this teacher 
being in a few months appointed master of the 
work-house at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunc- 
tion with some other heads of families, engaged 
John Murdoch in his stead. The education of our 
poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in common, 
and of their proficiency under Mr. Murdoch, we 
have the following account : " With him we learnt 
to i-ead English tolerably well*, and to write a lit- 
tle. He taught us loo the English grammar. I 
was too young to profit much from his lessons in 
grammar, but Robert made some proficiency in it, 
a circumstance of considerable weight in the un- 
folding of his genius and character; as he soon 
became remarkable for the fluency and correctness 
of his expression, and read the few books that 
came in his m ay with much pleasure and improve- 
ment ; for even then he was a reader when he 
could get a book. Murdoch, whose library at 
that tiine had no great variety in it, lent him The 
Life of Hannibal, which was the first book he 
read (the school-books excepted), and almost the 
only one he had an opportunity of reading while 
he was at school; for The Life of Wallace, which 
he classes with it in one of his letters to you, he 
did not see for some years afterwards, when he 
borrowed it from the blacksmith who shod our 
horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved him- 
self greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, by his 
intelligence, industiy, and integrity. In conse- 
quence of this, with a view of promoting his in- 
terest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of which 
we have tlie following account. 

" Tlie farm was upwanls of seventy acresf 
(between eighty and ninety English statute mea- 
sure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds 
annually, for the first six years, and afterwards 
fort)--five pounds. My father endeavoured to sell 
his leasehold property, for the purpose of stock- 

* Letter from Gilbert Bums to Mrs. Dunlop. 

t Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of this farm is Mount Oliphant, in Ayr pa- 
rish. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



15 



ing this farm, but at that time was Qnable, and 
Mr. F( rfjiison lent liim a hundred pounds for that 
piirpost. He removed to his new situation at 
Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, I think, not above two 
years after this, tliat Murdocli, our tutor and 
friend, left this part of the country, and there be- 
ing- no school near us, and our little services be- 
ing; useful on the farm, my father undertook to 
teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by 
eandie-liglit, and in this way my two elder sisters 
got ail tlte educiition they received. I remember 
a circumstance that liappened at this time, which, 
though trifling in itself, is fresh in my memory, 
and may serve to illustrate the character of my 
brother. Murdoch came to spend a niglit with 
us, and to take his leave when he was about to go 
into Carrick. He broug-ht us,as a present and me- 
morial of him, a small compendium of English 
grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Andronicns, 
and, by way of passing the evening, he began to 
read the play aloud. We were all attention for 
some time, till presently the whole party was dis- 
solved in tears. A female in the play (I have but 
a confused remembrance of it) had her hands 
chopt oif, and her tongue cut out, and then was 
insultingly desired to call for water to wash her 
liavids. At this, in an agony of distress, we with 
one voice desired he wotild read no more. My 
father observed, that if we would not hear it out, 
it would be needless to leave the i)lay with us. 
Robert replied, that if it was left lie would burn 
it. My father was going to chide him for this 
ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness ; but 
Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see 
so much sensibility ; and he left The School for 
Love, a comedy (translated I think from the 
French), in its place*." 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " coald 
be more retired than our general manner of living 
at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body but 
the jnembers of our own family. There were no 
boys of our own age, or near it, in the neigh- 
bourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the land 

* It is to be remembered that the poet was only 
nine years of age, and the relator of this incident 
under eight, at the time it happened. The effect 
■was very natural in children of sensibility at their 
ag^. At a more mature period of the judgment, 
such absurd representations are calculated rather 
to produce disgust or laughter, than tears. The 
scene to which Gilbert Bums alludes, oiiens thus : 

Titus Andronicus, Act II, Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, -tcith Lavinia ra- 
vished, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

Why is this silly play still printed as Shri.kc-s- 
peare's, against the opinion of all the best c/itics ? 
The bard of Avon was guilty of many extrava- 
gancies, but he always performed wltat he in- 
tended to perform. That he ever excited in a 
British mind (for the French critics must be set 
aside) disgust or ridicule, where he meant to have 
awakened pity or horror, is what will not be im- 
puted to that m«'5ter ©f the passion*. E. 



in the vicinity, was at that time possessed by- 
shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
retired from business, or who kept their farm in 
the country, at the same time that they followed 
business in town. My fatlier was for some tinie 
almost the oiily companion we had. He convers- 
ed familiarly on all subjects with us as if we had 
been men, and was at great pains wliile we ac- 
companied him in the labours of the farm, to lead 
the conversation to such subjects as might tend to 
increase our knowledge, or confirm us in virtu- 
ous habits. He borrowed Sahnon's Geographical 
Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us ac- 
quainted with the situation and history of the dif- 
ferent countries in tlie world ; while from a book- 
society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of 
Dcrliam^s Phifsiro and Astro-Theology, and Ray's 
Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some 
idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert 
read all these books with an avidity and industry 
scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a 
subscriber to Stackhouse''s History of the Bible, 
then lately published by James Meuros in Kil- 
marnock ; from this Robert collected a competent 
knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was 
so voluminous as to slacken his industiy, or so an- 
tiquated as to damp his researches. A brother 
of my mother, who had lived with us some time, 
and had learnt some arithmetic by our winter 
evening's candle, went iiito a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or Trades- 
nia7i''s sure Guide, and a book to teach him to 
write letters. Luckily, in the place of The Com- 
plete Letter Writer, he got by mistake a small 
collection of letters by the most eminent writers, 
with a few sensible directions for attaining aa 
easy epistolary style. This book was to Robert 
of the greatest consequence. It inspired him 
with a strong desire to excel in lette^-^^^•iting, 
while it furnished him with models by some of 
the first writers in our langiuige. 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that we wrote so ill, 
sent us week about, during a summer quarter, to 
the parish school of'Dalryinple, which, though 
between tAvo and three miles distant, was the 
nearest to us, that we might have an opiwrtunity 
of remedying this defect. Abotit this time a 
bookish acquaintance of my father's pi-ocured 
us a readitig of two volumes of Richardson's Pa- 
mela, which was the first novel we read, and the 
only part of Richardson's works my brother was 
acquainted with till towards the period of hi« 
commencing author. Till that time too he re- 
mained unacquainted with Fielding, with SraoIliH 
(two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and 
two volumes of Pei-egrine Pickle excepted), with 
Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors 
of eminence of the latter times. I recollect, in- 
deed, my father borrowed a volume of English 
history- from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehill's gar- 
dener. It treated of the reign of Jatnes the first, 
and his unfortunate son Charles, but I do not 
know who was the author ; all that I remember of 
it is something of ChaihJs's conversation with his 
children. A))out this time Murdoch, our former 
teacher, after having been in difft rent places in 



16 



LIFE OP 



the country, and ha\'ing taught a school some 
time in Dumfi'ies, came to be the estabiished 
teacher of the English language in Ayr, a cir- 
cumstance of considerable consequence to us. 
Tht remembrance of my father's former friend- 
ship, and his attachment to my brother, made him 
do every thing in liis power for our improvement. 
He sent us Pope's works, and some other poetry, 
the first that we had an opportunity of reading, 
excepting what is contained in The English Col- 
tectiuii, and in the volume of Ihe Edinburgh Ma- 
gazine for 1772; excepting also those ejccellent 
nexv songs that are hawked about the country in 
baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrymple 
school, my father sent Robert to Ayr to revise his 
English granunar, with his former teacher. He 
had been there only one week, when he was 
obliged to return, to assist at the harvest. When 
the harvest was over he went back to school, 
where he remained two weeks ; and this com- 
pletes the account of his school education, ex- 
cepting one sununer quarter some time after- 
wards, that he attended the parish school of Kirk- 
Oswalds (where he lived with a brother of my 
mother's) to learn surveying. 

" During the two last weeks that he was with 
Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
French, and he communicated the instructions he 
received to my brother, v ho, when he returned, 
brought home with him a French dictionary and 
granmiar, and the Adventures of Telemachus in 
the original. In a little while, by the assistance of 
these books, he had acquired such a knowledge of 
the language, as to read and understand any 
French author in prose. This was considered as 
a sort of prodigy, and, through the medium of 
Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance of seve- 
ral lads in Ajt, who were at that time gabbling 
French, and the notice of some families, particu- 
larly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of 
French was a recommendation. 

" Observing the facility with which he had ac- 
quired the French language, Mr. Robinson, the 
established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. iMur- 
doch's particular friend, having himself acquired 
a considerable knowledge of the Latin language 
by his own industry, without ever having learnt 
it at school, advised Robert to make the same at- 
tempt, promising him every assistance in his powei-. 
Agreeably to this advice, he purchased The Rudi- 
ments of the Latin Tongue, but finding this study 
dry and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. 
He frequently returned to his Rudijnents on any 
little chagrin or disappointment, particularly in 
his love aitairs ; but the Latin seldom predomi- 
nated moi-e than a day or two at a time, or a 
week at most. Observing himself the ridicule 
that would attach to this sort of coi^duct if it 
were known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now recol- 
lect, but they all ended, 

' So I'll to my Latin again.'' 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
9ieans of my brother's iinprovemeat. Worthy 



man! though foreign to my present purpose, C 
caimot take leave of him without tracing his fu- 
ture history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, he 
happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of 
Dr. Dalrymple, the parish iranister, who had not 
paid him that attention to which he thought him- 
self entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still hves, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr. Patei-son, now physiciau 
at AjT, was I believe a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
when my father settled in the neighbourhood. He 
early recognised my father as a fellow native of 
the north of Scotland, and a certain degree of in- 
timacy subsisted between them during Mr. Pater- 
son's life. After his death, his widow, who is a 
very genteel woman, and of great worth, delight- 
ed in doing what she thought her husband would 
have wished to have done, and assiduously kept 
up her attentions to all his acquaintance. She 
kept alive the intimacy with our family, by fre- 
quently inviting my father and mother to her 
house on Sundays, when she met them at church. 

" When she came to know my brother's pas- 
sion for books, she kindly offered us the use of 
her husband's library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and seve- 
ral other books that were of use to us. Mount 
Oliphant, the farm my father possessed in the pa- 
rish of A>T, is almost the very poorest soil I know 
of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof of 
this I cannot give, than that, notwithstanding the 
extraordinary rise in the value of lands in Scot- 
land, it was, after a considerable sum laid out in 
improWng it by the proprietor, let, a few years 
ago, five pounds per annum lower, than tlie rent 
paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My 
father in consequence of this soon came into dif- 
ficulties, which were increased by the loss of se- 
veral of his cattle by accidents and disease. — To 
the buffetings of misfortune, we could only op- 
pose hard labour and the most rigid economy. 
We lived very sparingly. For several years 
butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while 
all the members of the family exerted themselves 
to the utmost of their strength, and rather be- 
yond it, in the labours of the fann. My brother 
at the age of thirteen assisted in thrashing the 
crop of com, and at fifteen was the principal la- 
bourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, 
male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at 
our tender years, under these straits and difficul- 
ties, was A-ery great. To think of our father 
growing old (for he was now above fifty), broken 
down with tlie long continued fatigues of his life, 
with a wife and five other children, and in a de- 
clining state of circumstances, these reflections 
produced in my brother's mind and mine sensa- 
tions of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the 
hard labour and sorrow of this period of his life, 
was in a great measure the cause of that depres 



ROBERT BURNS. 



17 



sitm of spirits with wliich Robert was so often af- 
flicte.l throujjh his whole life afterwards. At this 
time he was almost constantly afflicted in the 
eveniii^s with a dull head-ache, w Inch at a future 
period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation 
of the lieart, and a threatening- of fainting and 
suffocation in his bed, in th. night time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at tlie 
«nd of every sixth year. He attempted to fix 
himself in a bett r farsn at the end of the first six 
years, but, failing in that attempt, he continued 
where he was for six years more. He then took 
tlie farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the i-ent of 
twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of Tarbol- 

ton, of Mr. then a merchant in Ayi*, and 

now (1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He re- 
moved to this farm at WJiitsunduy, 1777, and pos- 
sessed it oiily seven years* No writing had ever 
been made out of the conditions of the lease, a 
misunderstanding took place respecting them; 
the subjects in dispute were submitti d to arbitra- 
tion, and the decision involved my father's aifairs 
in ruin. He lived to Know of this decision, but 
not to see any execution in consequence of it. He 
died on the 13th of February, 1784. 

" The seve.i years we lived in Tarbolton pa- 
rish (extending from the seventeenth to the twen- 
ty-fourth of my brother's age), were not marked 
by much literary improvement ; but, during this 
time, the foundation was laid of certain habits in 
my brother's character, Mhich aftc rwards became 
but too prominent, and which malice and envy 
have taken delight to enlarge on. Though whin 
young -he was bashful and awkward in his inter- 
course with women, yei, v. hi n he appioaclied 
mai:hood, his attachment to their society became 
very strong, and he was constantly the victim of 
some fair Mislaver. The symptoms of his passion 
were often 'uch as nearly to equal those of the 
celebrated Sappho. I never, indeed, knew that 
he fainted, sunk, and died away, but the agita- 
tions of his mind and body, exceeded any thing of 
the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always 
a particular jealousy of people who were richer 
than himself, or who had more consequence in 
life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on per- 
sons of this description. When he selected any 
one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure to 
whom he should pay his particular attention, slie 
was instai\tly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination, and there was often a great dissimi- 
litude between his fair captivator, as she appear- 
ed to others, and as she seemed when invested 
with the attributes he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yo- 
rick's affections flowed out towards Madam de 
L — at the remise door, while the eternal vows of 
Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently 
encountering other attractions, which formed so 
many underplots in the drama of his love. As 
these connexions were governed by the strictest 
rules of virtue and mod( sty (from which he fiever 
deviated lill he reacln d his 23d y< ar), he became 
anxious to be in a situatio.. to n\ai-ry. This was 
iiot likely to be soon the case, while he remained 



a farmer, as the stocking of a fnrm required a 
sum of money he had no probability of biing mas- 
ter of for a great while. He began, therefore, to 
think of tryi:ig some other line of life. He and 
I had for several years taken land of my father, 
for the purpose of raising Hax on our own ac« 
couiit. In the course of selling it, Robert begau 
to think of turning flax-dresser, both as being 
suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and 
as subservient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine 
for six .nonths. but abandoned it ai that period, as 
neither agreeing with his health nor inclination. 
In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance, 
of a freer manner of thinking and liviig than he 
had been used to, whose- society prepared him for 
overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which bad 
hitherto restrained hijn. Towards the end of the 
period mider review (in his 24th year), and soon 
after his father's death, he was furnished with the 
subject of his epistle to John Rai.kin. During 
this period, also, he became a free-mason, which 
was his first introduction to the life of a boon- 
companion. Yet, notwithstandiiig these circum- 
stances, and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch 
drijik (which seems to have misled his historiaits), 
I do not recollect, during these seven years, nor 
till towards the end of his commencing author 
(when his growir.g celebrity occasioned his being 
often in company), to have ever seen him intoxi- 
cated, nor was he at all given to drinking. A 
stronger proof of the general sobriety of his con- 
duct need not be required, than wliat I am nbout 
to give. During tlie whole of the time we lived 
in the f;irm of Loclilea with n^y father, he allow- 
ed my brother anil me such wages for our labtiur, 
as he gave to other labourers, as a part of which, 
every article of our clothing manufactured in the 
family was regularly accounted for. When my 
father's affairs drew near a crisis, Roijert and 
I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 118 
acres, at the i-ent of 90^. per annum (the farm on 
which I live at present), from Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
ton, as an asylum for the famil;> in case of the 
worst. It was stocked by the property and indi- 
vidual savings of the whole fainily, and was a 
joint concern' among us. Every member of the 
family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour 
lie performed on the fai-m. My brctlier's allow- 
ance and mine was seven pounds ptr annum each. 
And, during the whole time this family coneeru 
lasted, which was four years, as well as during 
the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses ne- 
ver in any one year exceeded his slender income. 
As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family 
accounts, it is not possible that there can be any 
fallacy in this statement, in my br.ither's favour. 
His temperance and frugality were every thing 
that could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very frosty, 
and the spring was very late. Our crops in con- 
sequence Wert: very u):profitable, and notuith- 
standii'g our utmost diligence and econoii\, we 
found ourselves obliged to crive up )!!.- bar^-iin, 
with the loss of a considerable part ef our original 
C 



18 



LIFE OF 



stock. It was during these four years, that Ro- 
bert formed his ccni^exion Avith Jeai) Armour, af- 
terwai'ds Mrs. Burns. Tliis connexion cvuld no 
longer be concealed, about the time we came to a 
final determination to quit the fiirra. Robert 
durst not engage with a family in his poor unset- 
tled state, but was anxious to shield his partner 
by every means in his power from the conse- 
quences of their imprudence. It was agreed, 
therefore, between them, that they should make a 
legal acknowledgment of an irregular and private 
marriage, that he should go to Jamaica to push 
hit fortune, and that she should remain with her 
father till it might please Providence to put the 
means of supporting a family in his power. 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her fa- 
ther's. The intimation of a marriage was the 
first suggestion he received of her real situation. 
He was in the greatest distress, and fainted away. 
The mari-iage did not appear to him to make the 
matter any better. A husband in Jamaica ap- 
peared to him a!id to his wife little better than 
none, and an elTectual bar to any other prospects 
of a settlement in life that their daughter might 
have. They, therefore, expressed a wish to her, 
that the written papers which respected the mar- 
riage sJiould be cancelled, and thus the max'riage 
rendei-ed void. In her melancholy state, she felt 
the deepest remoi-se at having brought such heavy 
affliction on parents that loved her so tenderly, 
and submitted to their entreaties. Their wish 
was mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest 
anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home, and 
provide for his wife and family in the best man- 
ner that his daily labours could provide for them ; 
that being the only means in his power. Even 
this oftVr they did not approve of; for humble as 
Miss Armour's station was, and great though her 
imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes of her 
partial parents, might look to a better connexion 
than that with my friendless and unhappy bro- 
ther, at that time without house or biding-place. 
Robert at lengtli consented to their wishes, but 
his feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- 
tracting naturje, and the impression of sorrow was 
not effaced, till by a regular marriage they were 
indissolu];ly united. In the state of mind which 
this separation produced, he wished to leave the 
country as soon as possible, and agreed with Dr. 
Douglas to go out to Jamaica, as an assistant over- 
seer, or, as I believe it is called, a book-keeper, on 
his estate. As he had not sufiicient money to pay 
liis passage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas 
was to procure a passage for him was not expect- 
ed to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised 
liim to publish his poems in the mean time by 
subsci-iption, as a likely way of getting a little 
money to provide him more liberally in necessa- 
ries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, sub- 
scription bills were printed inmiediately, and the 
printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his pre- 
parations going on at the same tiuie for his voyage. 
The reception, however, which his ijoems met 
with in the world, and the friends they procured 
him, made him change his resolution of going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised tt« go to Edinburgh 
to publish a second edition. On his return, in 



happier circumstances, Le renewed kis connexion 
with Mrs. Burns, and rendered it permanent by 
an union for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to gire 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The remaining 
part he spent in Edinburgh, or in Dumfries-shire, 
and its incidents are as well known to you as to 
me. His genius having procured him your pa- 
tronage and friendship, this gave rise to the cor- 
respondence between you, in which I believe his 
sentiments were delivered with the most respect- 
ful, but most unreserved confidence, and which 
only terminated with the last days of his life." 

This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a 
commentary on the preceding sketch of our poet's 
life by himself. It will be seen, that the distrac- 
tion of mind which he mentions {'j. 13), arose 
from the distress and sorrow in which he had in- 
volved his future wife. — The whole circumstances 
attending this connexion are certainly of a very 
singular nature*. 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
nan-ative, how much the children of William 
Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents ; though it 
does not appear that he possessed any portion of 
that vivid imagination for which the subject of 
these memoii's was distinguished. In page 11, it 
is observed by our poet, that his father had an un- 
accountable antipathy to dancing^schools, and that 
his attending one of these, brought on him his 
displeasure, and even dislike. On this observation 
Gilbert has made the following remark, which 
seems entitled to implicit credit.—" I wonder how 
Robert could attribute to our father that lasting 
resentment of his going to a dancing-school 
against his will, of which he was incapable. I 
believe the truth was, that he about tliis time be- 
gan to see the dangerous impetuosity of my bro- 
ther's passions, as well as his not being ajnenable 
to counsel, which often irritated nxy father ; and 
which he would naturally think a dancing-school 
was not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense 
in cultivating, than on the rest of the family, in 
the instances of sending him to Ayr and Kirk- 
Oswald's schools ; and he was greatly delighted 
with his warmth of heart, and his conversational 
powers. He had, indeed, that dislike of dancing- 
schools which Robert mentions ; but so far over- 
came it during Robert's first month of attendance, 
that he allowed all the rest of the family tliat 
were fit for it, to accompany him during the se- 
cond month. Robert excelled in dancing, and 
was for some time distractedly fond of it," 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, our poet 
described his ancestors as " renting lands of the 
noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having had the 

* In page 13, the poet mentions his—" skulking 
from covert to covert, under the terror of a. jail."— 
The " pack of the law" were " uncoupled at his 
heels," to oblige hiui to find security for the main- 
tenance of his twin-children, whom he was not 
permitted to legitimate by a marriage with their 
ihother ! 



ROBERT BURNS. 



19 



faenouv of sharing^ their fate. I do not," con- 
tinu s he, *' use the word honour with any refe- 
pencc to political principles ; loyal and disloyal, I 
take to be mei-ely relative terms, in that a,,cient 
and formidable court, known in this country by 
the name of Club-law, where the right is always 
with the strongest. But those who dare welcome 
ruin, and shake hands with infamy, for what they 
sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, or 
their king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shakes- 
peare, of Brutus and Cassius, honourable men. I 
mention this circumstance because it threw my 
ftther on the world at large," 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing 
the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns, and it 
would have been unnecessary to have noticed it 
on the present occasion, had not several manu- 
script copies of that letter been in circulation. 
" I do not know," observes Gilbert Burns, " how 
ray brother could be misled in the account he has 
given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors.— I be- 
lieve the earl Marischal forfeited his title and 
estate in 1715, l)efore my father was boni ; and 
among a collection of parish certificates in his 
possession, I have read one, stating that the bearer 
had no concern in the late wicked rebellion.'''' On 
the information of one who knew William Burnes 
soon after he arrived in the county of Ayr, it 
may be mentioned, that a report did prevail, that 
he had taken the field with the young Chevalier, 
a report which the certificate mentioned by his 
son, was, perhaps, intended to counteract. Stran- 
gers from the north, settling in the low country 
of Scotland, were in those days liable to suspi- 
cions, of having been, in the familiar phrase of 
the country, " Out in the forty-five" (1745), espe- 
cially when they had any stateliness or reserve 
about them, as was the case with William Burnes. 
It may easily be conceived, that our poet would 
cherish the belief of his father's having been en- 
gaged in the daring enterprise of prince Charles- 
Edward. The generous attachment, the heroic 
valour, and the final misfortunes of the adlierents 
of the hoiise of Stewart, touched witli sjniipathy 
his youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his 
original political opinions*. 

* There is another observation of Gilbert Burns 
on his brother's narrative, in which some persons 
will be interested. It refers to page 10, where 
the poet speaks of his youthful friends. " ISly 
brother," says Gilbert Burns, " seems to set off 
his early companions in too consequential a man- 
ner. The principal acquaintance we had in Ayr, 
while boys, were four sons of Mr. Andrew MCul- 
ioch, a distant relation of my mother's, who kept 
a tea-shop, and had made a little money in the 
contraband trade, very common at that time. He 
died while the boys were young, and my father 
was nominated one of the tutors. The two eldest 
were bred shopkeepers, the third a surgeon, and 
the youngest, the only surviving one, was bred in 
a counting-house in Glasgow, where he is now a 
respectable merchant. I believe all tliese boys 
went to the West Indies. Then there were two 
sons of Dr. M'aicolm, whom I have mentioned in 



The father of our poet is described by one who 
kiiew him towards the latter end of his life, as 
above the common stature, thin, and bent with 
labour. His countenance was serious and expres- 
sive, and the scanty locks on his liead were grey. 
He was of a religious turn of mind, and, as is 
usual among the Scottish peasantry, a good deal 
conversant in speculative th. ology. There is in 
Gilbert's hands, a little manual of religious beli^ f, 
in the form of a dialogue hi twceri a father and 
his son, composed by him for tin usr of his chil- 
dren, in wliich the benevolence of his heart stems 
to have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of 
the Scottish church, into something appruaehing 
to Arminiaiiism. He was a devout man, and in 
the practice of calling his family together to join 
in prayer. It is known that the following exqui- 
site picture, in the Cotter's Saturday Night re- 
presents William Burnts and his fiunily at their 
evening devotions. 

The cheerful supper done, with serious face. 

They, round the ingle*, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. 

The big hall-bible, once his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffetst wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Ziou glidq, 

He walest a portion with judicious care ; 
And " let us worship Cod T^ he says, with solemn 
air. 

They chaunt their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest ainii? 
Perhaps Dundee's^ wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs^, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets|| the heavenly flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tiekl'd ears iio heint-folt raptures raise; 
No unison have tliey with our Creator's praise, 

my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest, a very 
worthy young man, went to the East Indies, 
w here he had a commission in the army ; he is 
the person wlmse heart my brother says the Mu)i- 
ny Begum scenes could 7iut corrupt. The other, 
by the i)iterest of lady Wallace, got an ensigncj 
in a regiment, raised by the duke of Hamilton, 
during the American war. I believe neither of 
them are now (1797) alive. We also knew the 
present Dr. Paterson, of Ayr, and a younger bro- 
ther of his now in Jamaica, who were much 
younger than us. I had almost forgot to mention 
Dr. Charles, of Ayr, who was a little older than 
my brother, and w ith whom we had a longer and 
closer intimacy than with any of the others, 
which did not, however, continue in after-life. 

* Fire. 

t Gray temples. 

\ Chooses. 

§ Xames of tunes in Scottish psalmodj-. The 
tunes mentioned in this poem, are the three whicli 
were used by William Burnes. who had no grcat< r 
variety. 

I! Adds fuel to. 



20 



LIFE OF 



The priest-like father reads the sacred page*, 

How yibrani was tlit frltud of God on high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or liow the royal hard did groaning lie, 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fii-e ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

Hon guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How he. who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage, they wrote to many a land ; 
How he, who, lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounc'd, by 
Heaven's command ! 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband, prays ; 
Hope spriiigs exulting on ti"iumphant wing, 

That thus thej all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In stith society, yet still more dear ; 
"Wliile cireliijg time raoves round, in an eternal 
sphere. 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret honioge pay, 

Ai d off>r up to Heaven the varm request. 
That he who stills iJie raven's clanrrous nest. 

And decks the lily f:ar in flowery pride, 
"Would, in the way his wisdoju sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside .' 

Of a family so interesting as that which inha- 
bited the cottage of William Bunies, aiid particu- 
larly of the father of the family, the reader will 
perhaps be willing to listen to some fartlier ac- 
count. What follows, is given by one already 
mentioned with so much honour, in the narrative 
of Gilbert Bunis, Mr. Murdoch, the preceptor of 
our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper 
Walker, esq., of Dublin, author of The Hislorical 
Mei'ivirs of the Irish Bards, ziwA of The Historical 
Memoir of the Italian Trageiiy, thus expresses 
himself: 



Sir, 



■worthy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he 
requested me to coimnunicate to you whatever 

* The course of family devotion among the 
Scotch, is first to sing a psalm, then to read a por- 
tion of scripture, and lastly to kneel down in 

P-^ayer. 



particulars I could recollect concerning Robert 
Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business bei..g at 
present multifarious aiid harassing, my attei,tion 
is consequently so much divided, and I am so lit- 
tle in the habit oT expressing ray thoughts on pa- 
per, that, at tliis distance of time, I can give but 
a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the 
life of that extraordiiiai^j' genius, with which alone 
I am acquainted. 

" Wilham Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kiiicardine, ai>d bred a gar- 
dener. He had been settled in AjTshire ten or 
twelve years before I knew him, and had been in 
the service of Mr Crawford of Doonside. He 
was afterwards employed as a gardener and over- 
seer by provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the 
parish of AUoway, which is now united with that 
of Ayr. In this parish, on the road side, a Scotch 
mile and a half from the town of Ayr, aiid half a 
mile from the bridge of Doon, William Burnes 
took a piece of land, consisting of about seven 
acres, part of which he laid out in garden ground, 
and part of wliich he kept to graze a cow, &c., 
still continuing in the emploj of provost Fergu- 
son. Upon this little farm was erected an humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar- 
chitect. It was, with the exception of a little 
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times an 
inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger 
portion of content, than in any palace in Eu- 
rope. The Cotter''s Saturday Night will give some 
idea of the temper and manners t'hat prevailed 
there. 

" Ih I7fi5, about the middle of March, Mr. W, 
Bunies came to Ayr, and sent to the school, 
where I was improving in writing, under my good 
friend Mr. Robison, desiring that I would come 
and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my 
writing-book with me. This was immediately 
complied with. Haring examined ray writing, he 
was pleased with it (you will readily allow he was 
not difficult) ; and told me, that he had received 
very satisfactory information of Mr. I'ennant, the 
master of the English school, concerning my im- 
provement in English, and in his method of leach- 
ing. In the month of May following, I was en- 
gaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, 
to teach, and accordingly began to teach the little 
school at Alloway, which was situated a few yards 
from the argillaceous fabric above-mentioned. My 
five employers undertook to board me by tunis, 
and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the 
year, provided my quarterly payments from the 
difterent pupils did not amount to that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and sevtni years of age ; his preceptor, about 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother, Gil- 
bert, had been grounded a little in Eiglish, before 
they \\ ere put under my care. They both made a 
rapid progress in ivading, and a tolerable progress 
in writing. In reading, dividi}ig words into sylla- 
bles by rule, spelling without book, parsiiig sen- 
tences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were generally at 
the upper end of the class, even when ranged 
witli bos by far their seniors. The books most 
Commonly used in the scheol werej the Spell'mg 



ROBERT BURNS. 



21 



Bvok, the Nerv Testament, the Bible, Masuii's 
Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's Eng- 
lish Crainiuar. They committed to jneinory the 
hyjuiis, aiid other poi nis of that collection, with 
unconunon facility. This facility was partly ow- 
ing to the method pursued by thv ir father and 
me in instructing them, which was, to make 
thtm thoroughly acquainted with the meaning of 
every word in each sentence, that was to be com- 
mitted to memoi-} . By the bye, this may be easier 
done, and at an earlier period, than is generally 
thought. As soon as they were capable of it, I 
taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order ; sometimes to substitute synonimous ex- 
pressions for poetical words, and to supply all the 
ellipses. These, you know, are thi means of 
knowing that the pupil understands his author. 
These are excellent helps to the an-angcment 
of words in sentences, as well as to a variety of 
expression. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more hvely imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a 
little church-music. Here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice 
untunable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and expressive 
of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said. Mirth, ivith thee I mean to 
live; and certainly, if any person who knew the 
two boys, had been asked, which of them was the 
most likely to court the muses, he would surely 
never have guessed that Robert had a propensity 
of that kind. 

" In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount OliphantX of his own improving, while in 
the ser^■ice of provost Ferguson. This farm be- 
ing at a considerable distance from the school, the 
boys could not attend regularly ; and some changes 
taking place among the other supporters of the 
school, I left it, having continued to conduct it 
Ibr nearly two years and a half. 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one 
of five candidates who were examined) to teach 
the English school at Ayr; and, in 1773, Robert 
Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the 
purpose of revising English grammar, &c., that 
he might be better qualified to instruct his bro- 
thers and sisters at home. He was i.ow with me 
day and night, in school, at all meals, and in all 
my walks. At the end of one week, I told him, 
that, as he was now pretty much master of the 
parts of speech, &c., I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation, that when 
he should meet with the name of a French town, 
ship, officer, or the like, in the newspapers, he 
might be able to pronounce it somethiiig like a 
French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- 
posal, and immediately we attacked the French 
with great courage. 

" Now there was little else to be heard but the 
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, &c. 
When walking together, and evm at meals, I was 
constantly telling him the names of diiferent ob- 
jects, as tkoy presented flieraselves, in French; so 



that he was honrly laying in a stock of words, and 
sometimes little phrases. In shoit, he took such 
pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was 
difficult to say which of the two was most zealous 
in the business ; and about the end of the second 
week of our study of the French, we began to read 
a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, in Feue- 
lon's own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began 
to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin- 
quish the pleasing scents that surrounded the 
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, te 
seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of 
Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about 
fifteen, I was told that he porfonned the work of 
a man. 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the end 
of three weeks, one of which was spent entirely 
in the study of English, and the other two chiefly 
in that of French. I did not, however, lose sight 
of him ; bnt was a frequent visitant at his fa- 
ther's house, when I had my half holiday, and 
very often went accompanied with one or two 
persons more intelligent than myself, that good 
William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
Then the labouring oar was shifted to some other 
hand. The father and the son sat down with us, 
when we enjojed a conversation, wherein solid 
reasoning, sensible remark, and a moderate sea- 
soning of jocularity, were so nicely blended, as to 
render it palatable to all parties. Robert had a 
hundred questions to ask me about the French, 
&c., and the father, who had always rational in- 
formation in vit;w, had still some question to pro- 
pose to my more learned friends, upon moral or 
natural philosophy, or some such interesting sub- 
ject. Mi's Burnes, too, was of the party as much 
as possible. 

' But still the house affairs would draw her 

thence. 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She'd come again, and with a gi-eedy ear 
Devoiu' up their discourse ;' 

And particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a more marked attention than to any body 
else. When under the necessity of being absent 
while he was speaking, she seemed to regrt t as a 
real loss, that she had missed what the good man 
had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had 
the most thorough esteem for ht r husband, of any 
woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder 
that she highly t- steemed him ; for I myself have 
always coiisidered William Burnes as by far the 
best of the human race that ever I had the plea- 
sure of being acquainted with— and miiny a wor- 
thy character I have know n. I can cheerfully 
join with Robert in the last line of his epitaph 
(borrowed from Goldsmith), 

' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduons attention to the ease and com- 
fort ef his woi-thy partner; and from her ulftc- 



22 



LIFE OP 



tionate behaviour to liim, as well as her unwearied 
attention to the duties of a mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father ; he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path 
of virtue ; not in dri^ingc thera, as some parents 
do, to the performance of duties to which they 
themselves are averse. He took care to find fault 
but very seldom ; and, therefDre, when he did re- 
buke, he was listened to with a kind of reveren- 
tial awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a 
reproof was severely so ; and a stripe with the 
tatvz^ even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt 
pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought 
forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good will of those that were labourers under him. 
I tliink I never saw him angry but twice ; the one 
time it was with the foreman of the band, for not 
reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other 
time it was with an old man for using smutty 
inuendos and double entendres. Were every foul- 
mouth'd old man to receive a seasonable check in 
this way, it would be to the advantage of the ri- 
sing generation. As he was at no time overbearing 
to inferiors, he was equally incapable of that pas- 
sive, pitiful, paltry sjiiiit, that induces some peo- 
ple to keep booing and booing in the presence of a 
great man. He always treated superiors with a 
becoming respect ; but he never gave the smallest 
encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But I 
must not pretend to give you a description of all 
the manly qualities, the rational and Christian vir- 
tues, of the venerable William Bumes. Time would 
fail me. I shall only add, that he carefully practis- 
ed every known duty, and avoided every thing that 
was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words, Herein 
did he exercise himself, in living a life void of of- 
fence toivards God, and towards men. O for a 
world of men of such dispositions .' We should 
then have no wars. I have often wished, for the 
good of jnankiiid, that it were as customarj- to 
honour and perpetuate the memory of those who 
excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are 
called heroic actions :— then would the mausoleum 
of the friend of my youth, overtop and surpass 
most of the monuments I see in Westminster 
Abbey. 

" Although I cannot do justice to the character 
of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from 
these few particulars, what kind of person had the 
principal hand in the education of our poet. He 
spoke the English language with more propriety 
(both with resjject to diction and pronunciation) 
than any man I ever knew, with no greater ad- 
vantages. This had a very good effect on the 
boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, 
much sooner than their neighbours. I do not re- 
collect any of their cotemporaries at my little se- 
minarj', who afterwards made any great figure as 
liierarj' characters, except Dr. Tennant, who was 
chaplain to colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who 
is now in the East Indies. He is a man of ge- 
nius and learning; yet affable, and free from pe- 
dantrj'. 

" Mr. Bumes, in a short time, found that he 
had oven-ated Mount Oliphant, and that he could 
not rear his numerous family upon it.— After be- 



ing there some years, he removed to Lo6hlea, In 
the parish of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Robert 
wrote most of his poems. 

" But here, sir, you wU permi toe to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our poet. 
I shall, however, in my next, send you a copy of 
one of his letters to me, about the year 1783*. I 
received one since, but it is mislaid. Please re- 
member me, in the best mamier, to ray worthy 
friend, Mr. Adair, when you see him, or write to 
him." 
Hart'Street, Bloomsbury-square, 

London, Feb. 22, 1799. 

As the narrative of Gilbert Bums was written 
at a time when he was ignorant of the existence 
of the preceding narrative of liis brother, so this 
letter of Mr. Murdoch was Avritten without his 
having any knowledge that either of his pupils had 
been employed on the same subject. The three 
relations serve, therefore, not merely to illustrate, 
but to authenticate each other. Though the in- 
formation they convey might have been presented 
within a shorter compass, by reducing the whole 
into one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far 
more gratified by a sight of these original docu- 
ments themselves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it ap- 
pears, indeed, that our poet had great advantages ; 
but his opportunities of information at school, 
were more limited as to time, than they usually 
are among his countrymen, in his condition of 
life ; and the acquisitions which he made, and the 
poetical talent which he exerted, under the pres- 
sure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior, 
and perhaps scanty nutriment, testify at once the 
extraordinary force and activity of his mind. In 
his frame of body he rose nearly to five feet ten 
inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate 
agility as well as strength. In the various labours 
of the farm he excelled all his competitors. Gil- 
bert Burns declares, that in mowing, the exercise 
that tries all the muscles most severely, Robert 
was the only man that, at the end of a summer's 
day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his 
master. But, though our poet gave the powers 
of his body to the labours of the farm, he refused 
to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. 
While the ploughshare under his guidance passed 
through the sward, or the grass fell under the 
sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs 
of his country, musing on the deeds of ancient 
valour, or rajjt in the illusions of fancy, as her 
enchantments i-ose on his view. Happily, the 
Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man and beast 
rest from their labours. On this day, therefore. 
Burns could indulge in a freer intercourse with 
the charms of nature. It was his delight to wan- 
der alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream 
is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird, at the close of the summer's day. But 
still greater was his pleasure, as he himself in- 
fonns us, in walking on the sheltered side of a 
wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the 

* See General Correspondence, No. I. 



nOBERT BURNS, 



&tttrm rave among tbe trees ; and more elevated 
still, his delight, to ascend some eminence during 
the agitations of nature, to stride along its sum- 
mit, wliile the lightning flashed antund him, and, 
amidst the howlings of the tempest, to apostro- 
phize the spirit of the storm. Such situations he 
declares most favourable to devotion — " Rapt in 
enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towai*ds Him, xvho 
7valfcs on the rvings of the wind!'''' If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, this 
might determine it. The heart of the poet is pe- 
culiarly awake to every impression of beauty and 
sublimity ; but, with the higher order of poets, the 
beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns' writings, and the 
lively, and even cheerful colouring with which he 
has pourtrayed his own character, may lead some 
persons to suppose, that the melancholy which 
hung over him toA\ards the end of his days, was 
not an original part of his constitution. It is not 
to be doubted, indeed, that this melancholy ac- 
quired a darker hue in the progress of his life ; 
but, independent of his own, and of his brother's 
testimony, evidence is to be found among his jia- 
pers, that he was subject very early to those de- 
pressions of mind, which are, perhaps, not wholly 
separable from the sensil)ility of genius, but 
which in him arose to an uncommon degree. 
The following letter, addressed to his father, will 
serve as a proof of this observation. It was writ- 
ten at the time when he was learning the business 
of a flax-dresser, and is dated 

" Irvine, Dec, 27th, 1781. 
" Honoured Sir, 

" I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope 
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on 
new-year's day ; but work comes so hard upon 
us, that I do not choose to be absent on that ac- 
count, as well as for some other little reasons, 
which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only Jiiy 
sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole I am 
rather better than otherwise, though I mend by 
vei*y slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves 
has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither re- 
view past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; 
for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, 
produces most unhappy effects on my whole 
frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or 
two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a 
little into futurity ; but my princii)al, and indeed 
my only pleasurable employment, is looking back- 
wards and forwards in a moral and religious way. 
I ajn quite transported at the thought, that, ere 
long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal 
adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and dis- 
quietudes of this weary life ; for, I assure you, I 
ani heartily tired of it, and if I do not very much 
deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly 
resign it, 

' The soul uneasy and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with 
the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th cliapter 



of Revelations, than with smy ten times as many 
verses in the whole Bible, and would notexcliange 
the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me, 
for all that this world has to offer*. As for this 
world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I 
am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the 
flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable 
of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am alto- 
gether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. 
I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 
await me, and I am in some measure prepared, 
and daily preparing to meet them: I have but 
just time and paper to return you my grateful 
thanks, for the lessons of virtue and piety you 
have given me, which were too much neglected at 
the time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present 
my dutiful respects to my mother, and my com- 
pliments to ftlr. and Mrs. Muir ; and, with wishing 
you a meiTy new-year's day, I shall conclude. 
" I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son, 

« ROBERT BURNS. 
" P. S. My meal is nearly out, but I am goings 
to borrow till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was aa 
obscure as his condition was humble, displays the 
philosophic melancholy which so generally forms 
the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and 
ambitious spirit, which indicates a mind conscious 
of its sU-ength. At Irvine, Burns at this time pos- 
sessed a single room for his lodging, rented perliaps 
at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed hia 
days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his 
food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to him from 
his father's fairiily. The store of this humble, 
though wholesome nutriment, it appears, was 
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow, 
till he should obtain a supply. Yet, even in this 
situation, his active imagination had formed to 
itself pictures of eminence and distinction. His 
despair of malcing a figure in the world, shows 
bow ardently he wished for honourable fame; 
and his contempt of life, founded on this despair, 
is the genuine expression of a youthful and gene* 
rotis mind. In such a state of reflection, and of 
sufltring, the imagination of Burns naturally 
passed the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, 
and rested on those beautiful representations of a 
better world, where there is neither thirst, jior 
hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be 
in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

* The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are 
as follows : 

15. Therefore are theij before the throne of God, 
and serve him day and night in his temple ; and 
he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among 
them. 

16. T/iey shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
any mo7-e ; neither shall the sun light on them, 
nor any heat, 

17. For the lamb that is in the midst of the 
throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unte 
living fountains of waters , and God s/tall -a'tpe 
away all fears from tht'ir eyes. 



24 



LIFE OF 



Such a disposition is far from being at variance 
witli social enjoyments. Thoso who have studied 
the affinities of mind, know that a melancholy of 
this description, after a while seeks relief in the 
endearments of society, and that it has no distant 
connexion with the How of cheerfulness, or even 
the extravagance of mirth. It was a few days 
after the writing of tliis letter, that our poet, 'in 
giving a welcoming carousal to the new-year, with 
his gay companions," sutfered his flax to catch 
fire, and his sliop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' miiid was not exhausted 
by his daily labours, the effusions of his muse, his 
social pleasures, or his solitary meditations. Some 
time previous to his engagement as a Hax-dresser, 
having heard that a debating club had been estab- 
lished in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meet- 
ing would succeed in the village of Tarbolton. 
About the end of the year 1780, our poet, his bro- 
ther, and five other young peasants of the neigh- 
bourhood, formed themselves into a society of this 
sort, the declared objects of which were to relax 
themselves after toil, to promote sociality and 
friendship, and to improve the mind. The laws 
and regulations were furnished by Burns. The 
members were to meet after the labours of the day 
wei'e ovei% once a week, in a small public-house 
in the village ; where each should offer his opi- 
nion on a given question or subject, supporting it 
by such arguments as he thought proper. The 
debate was to be conducted with order and deco- 
rum, and, after it was finished, the members were 
to choose a subject for discussion at the ensuing 
meeting. The sum expended by each, was not 
to exceed three-pence ; and, with the humble po- 
tation that this could procure, they were to toast 
their mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with 
each other. This society continued its meetings 
regularly for some time, and in the autumn of 
1782, wishing to preserve some account of their 
proceedings, the y purchased a book, into which 
their laws and regulations were copied, with a 
preamble, containing a short history of their trans- 
actions down to that period. This curious docu- 
ment, which is evidently the wox-k of our poet, 
has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his 
memoirs. 

" History of the rise, proceedings, and regulations 
of the Bachelot^s Club. 

" Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club ad'ord; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record. 

" As the great end of human society is to be- 
come wiser and better, this ought, therefore, to be 
tlie princijjal view of every man in every station 
of life. But as experience has taught us, that 
such studies as inform the head and mend the 
heart, when long continued, are apt to exhaust the 
faculties of the jnind ; it has been found proper 
to relieve and imbend the mind, by some employ- 
ment or another, that may be agneable eiioiigh 
to keep its pow. rs in exercise, but at the same 
time not so serious as to v'xhaust them. But, su- 



peradded to this, by far the greater part of man- 
kind are under the necessity of earning the suste- 
nance of human life by the labour of their bodies, 
whereby, not oidy the faculties of the mind, but 
the nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, 
that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to 
some amusement or diversion, to relieve the wea- 
ried man, woi-n down with the necessary labours 
of life. 

•' As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under the 
pretence of amusement and diversion, men have 
plunged into all the madness of riot and dissipa- 
tion ; and, instead of attending to the grand de- 
sign of human life, they have begun with extra- 
vagance and folly, and ended with guilt and 
wretchedness. Impressed with these considera- 
tions, we, the following lads in the parish of Tar- 
bolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert 
Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchel, Thomas 
Wright, and WilUam M'Gavin, resolved, for our 
mutual entertain] nent, to unite ourselves into a 
club or society, under such rules a)id regulations, 
that, while we should forget our cares and labours 
in mirth and diversion, we might not transgress 
the bounds of innocence and decorum ; and, after 
agreeing on these, and some other regulatioiis, we 
held our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house 
of John Richard, upon the evening of the 11th of 
November, 1780, commonly called Hallowe'en, 
and, after choosing Robert Burns president for 
the night, we proceeded to debate on tliis (i\xk%- 
tion— Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but 
without any fortune, has it in his poiver to marry 
either of ttvo women, the one a girt of large for- 
tune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreea- 
ble in conversation, but rvho can manage the 
household affairs of a farm well enough ; the 
other of them a girl every way agreeable, in per- 
son, conversation, and behaviour, but without any 
fortune : which of them shall he choose /'—Finding 
ourselves very happy in our society, we resolved 
to continue to meet once a month in the same 
house, in the way and manner proposed, and 
shortly thereafter we cliose Robert Ritchie for 
another member. In May, 1781, we brought in 
David Sillar*, and in June, Adam Jamaiso:*, as 
members. About the beginning of the year 1782, 
we adniitted Maithtw Patterson and John Orr; 
and, in June following, we chose James Patter- 
son as a proper brother for such a society. The 
club being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarbolton on the race-night, the July following, 
and have a dance in honour of our society. Ac- 
cordingly we cbd meet each one with a partner, 
and spent the eveiiing in such innocence and mer- 
riment, such cheerfubiess and good-humour, that 
every brother will long remember it with plea- 
sure and delight." To this preamble are sub- 
joined the rules a.:d regulatioftst. 

The philosophical miud will dvvtU with inte- 
rest aiid pleasur. on an institution that conibiiied 
so skilfully the means of instruction and of hap- 

* The person to wliom Burns addressed his 
Epistle to Davie, a brut her ,joc(. 

t For which see Ajjpendia.; No. II. Note C. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



:25 



plness ; and if grandeur look down with a smile 
on tliese simple annals, let us trust that it will be 
a smile of benevolence and approbation. It is 
with regret that the sequel of the history of the 
Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. It 
survived several years after our poet removed 
from Ayrshire ; but, no longer sustained by his ta- 
lents, or cementeil by his social affections, its 
meetings lost much of their attraction ; and at 
length, in an e^-il hour, dissension arising amongst 
its members, the institution was given up, and the 
records committed to the flames. Happily the 
preamble and the regulations were spared ; and, 
as matter of instruction and of example, they are 
transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauehline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a similar institution there. The ivgula- 
tions of the club at Mauehline were nearly the 
same as those of the club at Tarbolton, but one 
laudable alteration was made. The fines for non- 
attendance had, at Tarbolton, been spent in en- 
larging their scanty potations. At Mauehline it 
was fixed that the money so arising, should be set 
apart for the purchase of books, and the first 
work procured in this manner was the Mirror, 
the separate numbers of which were at that time 
recently collected and published in volumes. Af- 
ter it, followed a number of other works, chiefly 
of the same nature, and aniong these the Lomtger. 
The society of Mauehline still subsists, and ap- 
peared in the list of subscribers to the first edition 
of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were ori- 
ginally all young men from the country, and 
chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of persons, 
in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in 
their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, and 
more susceptible of improvement, than the self- 
suflicient mechanics of country towns. With de- 
ference to the Conversation-society of Mauehline, 
it may be doubted whether the books which they 
purchased, were of a kind best adapted to pro- 
mote the interest and happiness of persons in this 
situation of life. The Mirror and the Lounger, 
though works of great merit, may be said, on a 
general view of their contents, to be less calcula- 
ted to increase the knowledge, than to refine the 
taste of those who read them ; and to this last ob- 
ject their morality itself, which is, however, al- 
ways perfectly pure, may be considered as suboi*- 
dinate. As works of taste they deserve great 
praise. They are indeed refined to a high degree 
of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is per- 
haps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of 
the peculiar manners of the age or country in 
which they were produced. But delicacy of taste, 
though the source of many pleasures, is not with- 
out some disadvantages, and to render it desirable, 
the possessor shouhl perhaps in all cases be raised 
above the necessity of bodily labour, unless, in- 
deed, we should include under this term the ex- 
ercise of the imitative aits, over which taste im- 
mediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a 
blessing to him who has the disposal of his own 
time, and who can dioose what book lie shall 



read, of what diversion he sliall partake, and what 
company he shall keep. To men so situuted, the 
cultivation of taste adords a grateful occupation 
in itself, and opens a path to many other gratifi- 
cations. To lueji of genius in the possession of 
opulence and leisure, the cultivation of the taste 
may be said to htt essential ; since it aifords em- 
ployment to those faculties, which, without tm- 
ployment, would destroy the happiness of the 
possessor, and corrects that morbid sensibility, oi*, 
to use the expression of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
of passion, which is the bane of the temperament 
of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, afcer 
he emerged from the condition ol" a peasant, had 
the delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibility 
of his passions, regulating all thi' efl^usions of his 
muse, and presiding over all his social enjoy Kie-its. 
But to the thousands who sitare the original con- 
dition of Burns, and who are doomed to pass their 
lives in the station in which they were born, deli- 
cacy of taste, were it even of easy aiiaiuine>.t, 
would, if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful 
blessing. Delicacy of taste may xaake ma sy ne- 
cessary labours irksome or disgusting, and should 
it render the cultivator of the soil uniiappy iii his 
situation, it presents no means by which that situ- 
ation may be improved. Taste and literature, 
which diifuse so many charms throughout society, 
which sometimes secure to their votaries distino- 
tion while living, and which still more frequently 
obtain for them posthumous fame, seldom pro- 
cure opulence, or even independence, when culti- 
vated with the utmost attention, and can scarcely 
be pursued with advantage by tlie peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupations al- 
low. Those who raise themselves from tlie cojtir 
dition of daily labour, are usually men who excel 
in the practice of some useful art, or who joiu 
habits of industry and sobriety to an acquaintance 
Mith some of the more common branches of 
knowledge. The penuianship of Butterworth, 
and the aritlimetic of Cocker, may be studied by 
men in the humblest walks of life, and they will 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of iiidepen 
dence, than the study of Homer oi- of Shaxes- 
IJeare, though he could comprehend, and even 
imitate the beauties of those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The sub- 
ject has many relations, and would justify an am- 
ple discussion. It may be observed, on tlie other 
hand, that the first step to improvement is to 
awaken the desire of improvement, and that this 
will be most effectually done by such reading as 
interests the heai't ami excites the imagination. 
Tlie greater part of the sacred writings them- 
selves, which, in Scotland, are more especially the 
manual of the poor, come under this description. 
It may be farther observed, that every human be- 
ing is the proper judge of his own happiness, and 
within the path of innocence ought to be permit- 
ted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of ihe 
Scottish peasantry to give a pr, f. reuce to works 
of taste and of fancy*, it may be pivsumed, they 

* In several lists ol" book-societies amoug the 
poorer classes in Scotland, which the txlilor has 



^a 



tIPE OF 



find a superior gratification in the perusal of such 
works ; and it may be added, that it is of more 
consequence they should be made happy in their 
original condition, tlian furnished with the means, 
or with the desire of rising above it. Such con- 
siderations are doubtless of much weight ; never- 
theless, the previous reflections may deserve to 
be examined, and here we shall leave the subject. 
Though the recoi-ds of the society at Tarbolton 
are lost, and those of the society at Mauchline 
have not been transmitted, yet we may safely af- 
firm, that our poet was a distinguished member of 
both these associations, which were well calcula- 
ted to excite and to develope the powers of his 
mind. From seven to twelve persons constituted 
the society at Tarbolton, and such a number is 
best suited to the purposes of infonnation. Where 
this is the object of these societies, the number 
should be such, that each person may have an op- 
portunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as 
of receiving those of others ; and the powers of 
private conversation are to be employed, not those 
of public debate. A lunited society of this kind, 
where the subject of conversation is fixed before 
hand, so that each member may revolve it previ- 
ously in his mind, is perhaps one of the happiest 
conti-ivances hitherto discovered for shortening 
the acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the 
evolution of talents. Such an association requires, 
indeed, somewhat more of regulation than the 
rules of politeness establish in common conversa- 
tion ; or rather, perhaps, it requires that the 
rules of politeness, which, in animated conversa- 
tion, are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of speech 
established in the club at Tarbolton, appears to 
have been more regular than was required in so 
small a society* ; where all that is necessary 
seems to be, the fixing on a member to whom 
every speaker shall address himself, and who shall 
in retui-n secure the speaker fi'om interruption. 
Conversation, which, among men whom intimacy 
and friendship have relieved from resen^e and 
restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to so many 
inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so of- 
ten diverges into separate and collateral branches, 
in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept with- 
in its channel by a simple limitation of tliis kind, 
which practice renders easy and familiar, flows 
along in one full stream, and becomes smoother, 
and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may also 
be observed, that in this way the acquisition of 
knowledge becomes more pleasant and more easy, 
from the gradual improvement of the faculty em- 
ployed to convey it. Though some attention has 
been paid to the eloquence of the senate and the 
bar, which in this^ as in all other free govern- 
ments, is productive of so much influence to the 
few who excel in it, yet little regard has been paid 
to the humbler exercise of speech in private con- 
versation, an ait that is of consequence to every 

seen, works of this description form a great part. 
These societies are by no means general, and it 
is not supposed that they are increasing at pre- 
srent. 

*Sce Anpcndix, No. II. Note C; 



description of persons under every form of go- 
^ernment, and on which eloquence of every kind 
ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much time, 
and of long practice. Children are always defec- 
tive in clear articulation, and so are young peo- 
ple, though in a less degree. What is called 
slurring in speech, prevails with some persons 
through life, especially in those who are taciturn. 
Articulation does not seem to reach its utmost 
degree of distinctness in men before the age of 
twenty, or upwards; in women it reaches this 
point somewhat earlier. Female occupations re- 
quire much use of speech, because they are duties 
in detail. Besides, their occupations being gene- 
rally sedentary, the respiration is left at liberty. 
Their nerves being more delicate, their sensibility 
as well as fancy is more lively ; the natural con- 
sequence of which is, a more frequent utterance 
of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a dis- 
tinct articulation at an earlier age. But in men 
who have not mingled early and familiarly with 
the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and 
clear in apprehension, it is often painful to ob- 
serve the difiiculty with wliich their ideas are 
communicated by speech, througli the want of 
those habits that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together ; which, when established, seem 
as if they had arisen spontaneously, but which in 
truth are the result of long and painful practice, 
and, when analyzed, exhibit the phenomena of 
most curious and complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been describing, 
while they may be said to put each member in 
possession of the knowledge of all the rest, im- 
prove the powers of utterance, and, by the colli- 
sion of opinion, excite the faculties of reason and 
reflection. To those who wish to improve their 
minds in such intervals of Ijibour as the condition 
of a peasant allows, this method of abbreviating 
instruction, may, under proper regulations, be 
highly useful. To the student whose opinions, 
springing out of solitary observation and medita- 
tion, are seldom in the first instance correct, and 
which have, notwithstanding, while confined to 
himself, an inci-easing tendency to assume in his 
own eye the chai-acter of demonstrations, an asso- 
ciation of this kind, where they may be examined 
as they rise, is of the utmost importance ; since it 
may prevent those illusions of imagination, by 
which genius being bewildered, science is often 
debased, and error propagated through successive 
generations. And to men, who, having cultivated 
letters, or general science, in the course of their 
education, are engaged in the active occupations 
of life, and no longer able to devote to study or 
to books the time requisite for improving or pre- 
serving their acquisitions, associations of this 
kind, where the mind may unbend from its usual 
cares in discussions of literature or science, afford 
the most pleasing, the most useful, and the most 
rational of gratifications*. 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated 
in ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied 
■Ihe tablets of learning and science, and necessity 



KOBERT BURNS. 



27 



"Whether, in the humble societies of which he 
was a member, Bums acquired much direct infor- 
mation, may perhaps be questioned. It cannot, 
however, be doubted, that by collision, the fticul- 
ties of his mind would be excited, thaj, by prac- 
tice, his habits of enunciation would be establish- 
ed, and thus we have some explanation of that 
early command of words and of expression, which 
enabled him to pour forth his thoughts in lan- 
guage not unworthy of his genius, and which, of 
all his endomnents, seemed, on his appearance in 
Edinburgh, the most extraordinary*. For associ- 
ations of a literary nature, our poet acquired a 
considerable relish ; and happy had it been for 
him, after he emerged from the condition of a 
peasant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy 
them in the degree of which he was capable, so 
as to have fortified his principles of virtue by the 
purification of his taste, and given to the energies 
of his mind, habits of exertion, that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it must be 
acknowledged they were too often wasted, as well 
as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine, but tlie 
banks of that river, as it bends to the eastward 
above Mauchline, are singulai-ly beautiful, and 
they were frequented, as may be imagined, by 
our poet in his solitary walks. Here the muse 
often visited him. In one of these wanderings, 

produced the habit of studj-ing as it were in com- 
mon. Poets were found reciting their own verses 
in public assemblies ; in public schools only, phi- 
losophers delivered their speculations. The taste 
of the hearers, the ingenuity of the scholars, 
were employed in appreciating and examining 
the works of fancy and of speculation submitted 
to their consideration, and the irrevocable tuords 
were not given to the world before the comjjosi- 
tion, as well as the sentiments, were again and 
again retouched and improved. Death alone put 
the last seal on the labours of genius. Hence, 
perhaps, may be in part explained, the extraordi- 
nary art and skill with which the monuments of 
Grecian literature that remain to us, appear to 
have been constructed. 

* It appears that our poet made more prepara- 
tion than might be supposed, for the discussions 
of the society at Tarbolton.-— There were found 
some detached memoranda, evidently prepared 
for these meetings ; and, among others, the heads 
of a speech on the question mentioned p. 24, in 
which, as might be exjiected, he takes the impru- 
dent side of the question. The following may 
serve as a farther specunen of the questions de- 
bated in the society at T&ThoXton.— Whether do 
7ce derive more happiness from love or friend- 
ship ?— Whether between fiends^ who have no rea- 
son to doubt each others friendship, there should 
he any reserve? — Whether is the savage man or 
the peasant of a civilized country in the most 
happy situation? — Whether is a young man, of the 
lotver ranks of life, likeliest to be happy, ivho has 
got a good education, and his mind well informed, 
or he who has just tlu: educatiojL and information 
nf those around him ? 



he met among the woods, a celebrated beauty of 
the west of Scotland ; a lady, of whom it is said, 
that the charms of her person correspond with 
the character - f her mind. This incident gave 
rise, as might be expected, to a poem, of which 
an account will be found in the following Utter, 
in which he inclosed it to the object of his in- 
spiration. 

'•' To Miss 

" Mossgiel, IBth Nov. 1786. 
" Madam, 

" Poets are such outi-^ beings, so much the 
cliildren of wayward fancy and capricious wliim, 
tj/fSLt I believe the world generally allows them a 
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
sober sons of prudence and judgment. I mention 
this as an apology for the hberties that a nameless 
stranger has taken with you in the inclosed poem, 
which he begs leave to present you with. Whe- 
ther it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the 
best my abilities can produce; and, what to a 
good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it is 
equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though, I dare say, madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out 
as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my 
muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening 
sun was flaming over the distant western hills ; 
not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, 
or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden 
moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feath- 
ered warblers, pouring their harmony on every 
hand, ^vith a congenial kindred regard, and fre- 
quently turned out of my path, lest I should dis- 
turb their little songs, or frighten them to ano- 
ther station. Surely, said 1 to myself, he must 
be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your har- 
monious endeavour to please him, can eye your 
elusive flights to discover you secret recesses, and 
to rob you of all the property nature gives you, 
your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. 
Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across 
the way, what heart, at such a time, but must 
have been interested in its welfare, and wished it 
preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the 
withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene,— 
and such the hour, when, in a comer of my pros- 
pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's 
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic land- 
scape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards 
excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings! 
Had Calumny and Villainy taken my walk, they 
had at tliat moment sworn eternal peace with 
such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into 
metaphor and measure. 

" The inclosed song was the work of my re- 
tum home; and perhaps it but poorly answers 



3t 



LIFE OF 



what might have been expected from such a 
Qcene. 

*********** 

" I have the lionour to be, madam, your most 
obedient, and very humble servant, 

" ROBERT BURNS." 

'Twas even— the deAvy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang* ; 
The zepliyr wantoned round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang: 
In every gleii the mavis sang, 

Ail Nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
Wheii. musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection v. hispen d, passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmylef ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
Bui aoiUaji, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil. 
And nighliy to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballocluiiyle. 

Tlxn pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tejnpt the deej). 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

In the manuscript book, in which our poet has 
recounted this incident, and into which the letter 
siiid poem are copied, he complains that the lady 
made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to 
have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, 
difticult to find an excuse for her silence. Bums 
was, at that tiiue, little known, and, where known 
at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his 
humour, than for those strains of tenderness, in 
Vhich he ailerwards so much excelled. To the 

* //c//^' — Scotticism for hung, 

'!" Variation, Tlie lily's hvie and rose's dye 

Bespoke the lass o' Dallochmyle. 



lady herself, his name had perhaps never been 

mentioned, and of such a poem she might not 
consider herself as the proper judge. Her modesty 
might preA'ent her from perceiving that the muse 
of TibuUus breathed in this nameless poet, and 
that her beauty was awakening strains destined 
to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may- 
be conceived also, that, supposing the verses duly- 
appreciated, delicacy might find it diflicultto ex- 
press its acknowledgments. The fervent imagi- 
nation of the rustic bard possessed more of ten- 
derness than of respect. Instead of raising him- 
self to the condition of the object of his admira- 
tion, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and 
to strain tliis high-born beauty to his daring bo- 
som. It is true, Burns might have found prece- 
dents for such freedoms among the poets of 
Greece and Rome, and indeed of every country. 
And it is not to be denied, that lovely women 
have generally submitted to tliis sort of profana- 
tion with patience, and even with good-humour. 
To M'hat purpose is it to repine at a misfortune, 
which is the necessary consequence of their own 
charms, or to remonstrate with a description of 
men, who are incapable of controul ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful 
njnnph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have 
been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of 
our poet, though she received them with silent 
modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the 
force of his imagination, exposed him in a parti- 
cular manner to the impressions of beauty ; and 
these qualities, united to Ins impassioned elo- 
quence, gave him in turn a powerful influence 
over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr 
formed the scene of youthful passions of a still 
tenderer nature, the history of which it would be 
improper to reveal, wei-e it even in our power, 
and the traces of which will soon be discoverable 
only in those strains of nature and sensibility, to 
which they gave birth. The song entitled High- 
land Mary, is known to relate to one of these at- 
tachments. " It was written," says our bard, 
" on one of the most interesting passages of my 
youthful days." The object of this passion died 
early in life, and the impression left on the mind 
of Burns, seems to have been deep and lasting. 
Several years afterwards, when he was removed 
to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his 
recollections in the following impassioned lines.— 
In the manuscript book ft-om which we extract 
tliem, they are addressed To Mary in Heaven .' 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early mom. 
Again thou usher'st in tJie day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade .' 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hcar'st thou the groans that rend l*is breast ? 



ROBERT BURNS. 



m 



Trtiat sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I i'orgex the liallowxd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not elFace 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our lasti 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shoi-e, 

O'erhung with wild woods, ihick'ning, green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
'Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, by 
his brother, and by his tutor, these additions are 
necessary, in order that the reader may see his 
character in its various aspects, and may have an 
opportunity of forming a just notion of the varie- 
ty, as well as of the power of his original genius*. 

* The history of the poems formerly printed, 
will be found in the Appendix to tlie volume 
in which these poems are contained.— It is 
there inserted in the words of Gilbert Burns, 
who, in a letter addressed to the editor, has given 
the following account of the friends which Ro- 
bert's talents procured him before he left Ayr- 
shire, or attracted the notice of the world. 

" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our 
conning to it (Martinmas, 1783), was the property 
of the earl of Loudon, but was held in tack by 
Mr. Ga^in Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, from 
whom we had our bargain ; who had thus an op- 
portunity of knowing, and showing a sincere re- 
gard for, my brother, before he knew that he was 
a poet. The poet's estimation of him and the 
strong outlines of his cliaracter, may be collected 
from the dedication to this gentleman. When the 
publication was begun, Mr. Hamilton entered very 
v/armly into its interests, and promoted the sub- 
scription very extensively. Mr. Robert Aiken, 
writer in Ayr, is a man of worth and taste, of 
■warm affections, and connected with a most res- 
pectable circle of friends and relations. It is to 
this gentleman The Cotter''s Saturday Night is 
inscribed. The poems of my brother, which I 
Lave formerly mentioned, no sooner came into 
his hands, than they were quickly known and 
well received in the extensive circle of Mr. Ai- 
ken's friends, which gave them a sort of currency, 
necessary in this wise woi-ld, even for the good 
reception of things valuable in themselves. But, 
Mr. Aiken not only admired the poet; as soon as 
he became acquainted with him, he showed the 
wannest regard for the man, and did every thing 



We have dwelt the longer on the early part of 
his life, because it is the least known, and be- 
cause, as has already been mentioned, this part of 

in his power to forward his interest and respecta- 
bility. Tilt Epistle to a youtig Friend, was ad- 
dressed to this gentleman's son, Mr. A H. Aiken, 
now of Liverpool. He was the oldest of a young 
family, who were taught to receive my brother 
with respect, as a man of genius, and their fa- 
ther's friend. 

" The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Bal- 
iantine, esq., banker in Ayr ; one of those gentle- 
tlemen to whom my brother was introduced bj 
Mr. Aiken. He interested himself very wannly 
in my brother's concerns, and constantly showed 
the greatest friendship and attachment to him. 
When the Kilmar lock edition was all sold off, 
and a considerable demand pointed out the pro- 
priety of publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, 
who had printed the first, was asked if he would 
print a second, and take his chance of being paid 
from the first sale. This he declined, and when 
tliis came to Mr. Ballaatine's knowledge, he ge- 
nerouslj' offered to accommodate Robert with 
what jnoney he might need for that purpose ; but 
advised him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest 
place for publishing. When he did go to Edin- 
burgh, his friends advised him to publish ag;iin by 
subsci-iption, so that he did not need to accept 
this offer. Mr. William Parker, merchant, in 
Kilmarnock, was a subscriber for thii-ty-five co- 
pies of the Kilmarnock edition. This may, per- 
haps, appear not deserving of notice here ; but, if 
the comparative obscurity of the poet at this pe- 
riod be taken into consideration, it appears to me 
a greater eft'ort of generosity, than many things 
which appear more brilliant in my bi'otlier's fu- 
ture history. 

" Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, 
was one of those fi-iends Robert's poetrj had pro- 
cured hbn, and one who was dear to his heart. 
This gentleman had no very great fortune, or 
long line of dignified ancestry, but what Robert 
says of captain Matthew Henderson, might be 
said of him witli gi-eat propriety, that he lield the 
patent of his honours immediately from Almighty 
God. Nature had, indeed, marked him a gentle- 
man in the most legible characters. He died 
M'hile yet a young man, soon after the publication 
of my brother's first Edinburgh edition. Sir 
William Cunningham of Roberiland, paid a very- 
flattering attention, and showed a good deal of 
friendship for the poet. Before his going to 
Edinburgh, as well as after, Robert stenied pecu- 
liarly pleased with professor Stewart's friendship 
and conversation. 

" But of all the friendships which Robert ac- 
quired in Ayrshire or elscwhei-e, none seemed 
more agi-eeable to him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, 
of Dunlop, nor any which has been more uni- 
formly and constantly exerted in behalf of him 
and his family ; of which, were it proper, I could 
give many instances. Robert was on the point 
of setting out for Edinburgli before Mrs. Dunlop 
had heard of him. About the time of my bro- 
ther's publishing in Kilmai'uock, she had beea 



30 



LIFE OF 



his history is connected with some views of the 
condition and manners of the humblest ranks of 
society, hitherto httle observed, and which will 
perhaps be found neither useless nor uninte- 
resting. 

About the time of his leaving his native coun- 
try, his con-espondence commences, and, in the 
series of letters now given to the world, the chief 
incidents of the remaining part of his life will be 
found. This authentic, though melancholy record, 
will supersede in future the necessity of any ex- 
tended narrative. 

BURNS set out for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1786. He was furnished with a 
letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock, fi'om the 
gentleman to whom the doctor had addressed the 
letter which is represented by our bard as the im- 
mediate cause of his visiting the Scottish metro- 
polis. He was acquainted with Mr. Stewart, pro- 
fessor of moral philosophy in the university, and 
had been entertained by that gentleman at Ca- 

afflicted with a long and severe illness, which had 
reduced her mind to the most distressing state of 
depression. In this situation, a copy of the print- 
ed poems was laid on her table by a friend, and 
happening to open on The Cotter''s Saturdmj 
Nig/it, she read it over with the greatest pleasure 
and surprise : the poet's description of the simple 
cottagers, operating on her mind like the charm 
of a powerful exorcist, expelling the dtemon ennui, 
and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony 
and satisfaction. — Mrs. Dunlop sent off a person ex- 
press to Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, 
with a very obliging letter to my brother, desiring 
him to send her half a dozen copies of his poems, 
if he had them to spare, and begging he would 
do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop-house as 
soon as convenient. This was the beginning of 
a correspondence which ended only with the 
poet's life. The last use he made of his i)en was 
writing a short letter to this lady a few dajs be- 
fore his death. 

" Colonel FuUerton, who afterwards paid a very- 
particular attention to the poet, was not in the 
country at the time of his first commencing- au- 
thor. At this distance of time, and in the hurry 
of a wet day, snatched from laborious occujja- 
tions, I may have foi-got some persons who ought 
to have been mentioned on this occasion, for 
which, if it come to my knowledge, I shall be 
heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of paitieu- 
lar value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole 
heiress to sir Thomas Wallace, of Craigie, and li- 
neal descendant of the illustrious Wallace, the 
first of Scottish warriors, possesses the qualities 
of mind suited to her high lineage. Preserving 
in the decline of life the generous afl^ections of 
youth, her admiration of the poet was soon ac- 
companied by a sincere friendship for the man ; 
which pursued hiin in after-life through good and 
e^il report ; in poverty, in sickness, and in sor- 
row ; and w liich is continued to his infant family, 
now deprived of their parent. 



trine, his estate in AjTshire. He liad been intro- 
duced, by Mr. Alexander Dalzel, to the earl of 
Glencairn, who had expressed his high approba- 
tion of his poetical talents. He had friends, 
therefore, who could introduce him into the cir- 
cles of literature, as well as of fashion, and his 
own manners and appearance exceeding every 
expectation that could have been formed of them, 
he soon became an object of general curiosity 
and admiration. The following circumstance 
contributed to this in a considerable degree.— At 
the time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the 
periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, was pub- 
lishing, every Saturday producing a successive 
number. His poems had attracted the notice of 
the gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and 
the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted to 
An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire plough- 
man, -with extracts from his poems, written by 
the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie*. The Loun- 
ger had an extensive circulation among persons 
of taste and literature, not in Scotland only, but 
in various parts of England, to whose acquain- 
tance, therefore, our bard was immediately intro- 
duced. The paper of Mr. Mackenzie was calcu- 
lated to introduce him advantageously. The 
extracts are well selected ; the criticisms and re- 
flections are judicious, as well as generous; and, 
in the style and sentiments, there is that happy 
delicacy, by which the writings of the author ai-e 
so eminently distinguished. The extracts from 
Burns' poems in the ninety-seventh number of 
The Lounger, were copied into the London, as 
well as into many of the pro%incial papers, and 
the fame of our bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and conduct 
of Burns at this jieriod, the following account has 
been given by Mr. Stewart, professor of moral 
philosophy in the university of Edinburgh, in a 
letter to the editor, which he is particularly hap- 
py to have obtained permission to insert in these 
memoirs. 

" THE first time I saw Robert Bums, was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
house in Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend, Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- 
line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of 
his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the 
date particularly, by some verses which Burns 
wrote after he returned home, and in which the 
day of our meeting is recorded.— My excellent and 
much lamented friend, the late Basil, lord Daer, 
happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, 
by the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an imi)ression on the mind of the poet, which 
never was effaced. The verses I allude to, are 
among the most imperfect of his pieces ; but a 
few stanzas may perhaps be an object of curiosity 
to you, both on account of the character to which 

* This paper has been attributed, but impro- 
perly, to lord Ci-aig, one of the Scottish judges, 
author of the very interesting account of Michael 
Brace, in the 36th number of the Mirror, 



ROBERT BURNSj 



31 



they relate, and of the light which they throw on 
the situation and feeling's of the writer, before 
his name was known to the public*. 

" I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the pei-iod of our first acquain- 



* This poem is as follows. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled* up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a lord. 

I've been at drunken 7vriters''f feasts, 
Nay been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' reverence be it spoken ; 
I've even joiu'd the honour'd Jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a lord— stand out my slijn, 
A lord — a peer — an earl's son. 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An sic a lord— lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh, for Hogarth's magic pow'r 
To show sir Bardy's willyart glowrt, 

An how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan§, as if led wi' branks||. 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shankSj 

He in the parlour hanuner'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sease and social glee, 
An' (what sui-prised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watclrd the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assujning ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman* 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

These lines will be read with no common in- 
terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- 
plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte- 
nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene- 
volence of heart, of Basil, lord Daer. 



* Clambered. 

■J Frightened stare. 

II A kind of bridle* 



t Attorneys. 

J Walkins stupidly. 



tance, the Kilmarnock edition of hi* poems had 
been just published, or was yet in the press. I 
suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
still in my possession, copies, in his own hand- 
writing, of some of his favourite performances ; 
particularly of his verses ' on turning up a Mouse 
with his plough ;' ' on the Mountain Daisy ;' and 
' the Lament.' On my return to Edinburgh, I 
showed the volume, and mentioned what I knew 
of the author's liistory, to several of my friends, 
and, among others, to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who 
first recommended him to public notice, in the 
97th number of The Lounger. 

" At this time. Burns' prospects in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously form- 
ed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very hum- 
ble situation, not, however, without lamenting, 
that his want of patronage should force him to 
think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, 
when his ambition aimed at no liigher an object 
than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his 
own coujiUry. 

" His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; 
strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
worth ; but without any tiling that indicated for- 
wardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his 
share in conversation, but not more than belong- 
ed to him ; and listened with apparent attention 
and deference, on subjects where his want of 
education deprived him of the means of informa- 
tion. If there had been a little more of gentle- 
ness and accommodation in his tejnper, he would, 
I think, have beeji still more interesting ; but he 
had been accustomed to give law in the circle of 
his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of any 
thing approaching to meanness or servility, ren- 
dered his manners somewhat decided and hard. — 
Nothing perhaps was more remarkable among his 
various attaiiunents, than the fluency, and preci- 
sion, and originality of his language, when he 
spoke in company ; more particularly as he aimed 
at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided 
more successfully than most Scotchmen, the pecu- 
liarities of Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several months. 
By whose advice he took this step. I am unable to 
say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his own 
curiosity to see a little more of the world ; but, I 
confess, I dreaded the consequences from the 
first, and always wished that his pursuits and ha- 
bits should continue the same as in the former 
part of life ; with the addition of. what I consi- 
dered as then completely within his reach, a good 
farm on moderate terms, in a part of the country 
agreeable to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay in 
town, from all ranks and descriptions of persons, 
were such as would have turned any head but liis 
own. I cannot say that I could perceive any un- 
favourable effect which they left on his mind. 
He retained the same simplicity of manners and 
appearance, which had struck me so forcibly when 
I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem 
to feel any additional self-importance from the 
number and rank of his new acquaintance. Hiv 



5'2 



LIFE OF 



dress was perfectly suited to bis station, plain and 
iiiipretendiug, with a sufficient attention to neat- 
ness. If I recollect i^iglit, he always wore boots ; 
and, when on more than usual ceremony, buck- 
skin breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so of- 
ten as I could have wished. In the course of the 
spring, he called on me once or twice, at my re- 
quest, early in the morning, and walked with me 
to Braid-Hills in the neighbourhood of tJie town, 
when he charmed me still more by his private 
conversation, than he had ever done in company. 
He was passionately fond of the beauties of na- 
ture ; and I recollect once he told me, when I 
was admiring a distant prospect in one of our 
morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking 
cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none 
could understand who had not MTtnessed, like 
himself, the happiness and the worth which they 
contained. 

" In his political principles he was then a Ja- 
cobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to this, 
that his father was originally from the estate of 
lord Mareschall. Indeed, he did not appear to 
have thought much on such subjects, nor very 
consistently. He had a very strong sense of reli- 
gion, and expi'essed deep regret at the levity with 
■which he had heard it ti'eated occasionally in 
some con\'ivial meetings which he frequented. I 
speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; 
for afterwards we met but seldom, and our con- 
versation turned chiefly on his literary projects, 
or his private affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not 
from any of your letters to me, that you had ever 
seen Burns*. If you have, it is superfluous for 
me to add, that the idea which his conversation 
conveyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if 
possible, that which is suggested by his writings. 
Among the poets whom I have happened to 
know, I have been struck, in more than one in- 
stance, with the unaccountable disparity between 
their general talents, and the occasional inspira- 
tions of their more favoured moments. But all 
the faculties of Burns' mind were, as far as I 
could judge, equally \-igorous; and his predilec- 
tion for poetry was rather the result of his own 
enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a 
genius exclusively adapted to that species of com- 
position. From his conversation, I should have pro- 
nounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk 
of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accus- 
tomed to dwell, the characters of the individuals 
with whom he happened to meet, was plainly a fa- 
vourite one. The remarks he made on them were 
always shrewd and pointed, though frequently in- 
clining too much to sarcasm. His praise of those 
he loved was sometimes indiscriminate and extra- 
vagant; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather 
from the caprice and humour of the moment, 
than from the effects of attachment in blinding 
his judgment. His wit was ready, and always 

* The editor has seen .ind conversed with 
Burns. 



impressed with the marks of a vigorous under* 
standing ; but, to my taste, not often pleasing or 
happy. His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
works, are the only performances, perhaps, that 
he has produced, totally unworthy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think 
that he made a pretty long excursion tliat season 
to the Highlands, and that he also visited what 
Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scotland, 
upon the banks of the Tiviot and the Tweed. 

'• I should have mentioned before, that, not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns' predilection for con- 
vivial, and not very select society, I should have 
concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from 
all of liim that ever fell under my own observa- 
tion. He told me, indeed, himself, that the weak- 
ness of his stomach was such as to deprive him 
entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, 
however, somewhat alarmed about the eftect of 
his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious 
life, when he confessed to me, the first night he 
spent in my house after his winter's campaign in 
town, that he had been much disturbed when in 
bed, by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, 
was a complaint to wliich he had of late become 
subject. 

'• In the course of the same season, I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a ma- 
son-lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. 
He had occasion to make some short unpremedi- 
tated compliments to different individuals from 
whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and 
every thing he said was happily conceived, and 
forcibly, as well as fluently expressed. If I am 
not mistaken, he told me, that in that village, be- 
fore going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a 
small club of such of the inhabitants as had a 
taste for books, when they used to converse and 
debate on any interesting questions that occurred 
to them in the course of their reading. His man- 
ner of speaking in public, had evidently the 
marks of some practice in extempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have al- 
ways considered as characterisiical in a high de- 
gree of true genius, the extreme facility and good 
nature of his taste, in judging of the composi- 
tions of others, where there was any real ground 
for praise. I repeated to him many passages of 
English poetry, with wliich he was unacquainted, 
and have more than once witnessed the tears of 
admiration and rapture, with which he heard 
them. The collection of songs by Dr. Aikin, 
which I first put into liis hands, he read m ith un- 
mixed delight, notwithstanding his former efforts 
in that very diflicult species of writing; and I 
have little doubt that it had some effect in polish- 
ing his subsequent compositions. 

'■ In judging of prose, I do not think his taste 
was equally sound. I once read to him a passage 
or two in Franklin's Works, which I thought 
verj' happily executed, upon the model of Addi- 
son ; but he did not appear to relish, or to per- 
ceive the beauty which they dei'ived from their 
exquisite simplicity; and spoke of them with in- 
difference, wheu compared with ths point, ami 



ROBERT BURNS. 



S3 



antithesis, and qualntness of /«ni«*. The influ- 
ence of this taste is very perceptible in his own 
prose compositions, although their great and vari- 
ous excellencies render some of them scarcely 
less objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- 
mances. The late Dr. Robertson used to say, 
that, considering his education, the former seem- 
ed to him the more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most minute 
accuracy. They were cluefly ballads, and other 
pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of them 
(he told me) he had learned in his childhood, 
from his mother, who delighted in such recita- 
tions, and whose poetical taste, rude as it proba- 
bly was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction 
to her son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which accidental- 
ly fell into his hands, in his early years, he men- 
tioned particularly the recommendatory poems by 
different authors, prefixed to Herv€y''s Medita- 
tions ; a book which has always had a very wide 
circulation among such of the country people of 
Scotland, as affect to unite some degree of taste 
with their religious studies. And these poems 
(although they are certainly below mediocrity) he 
continued to read with a degree of rapture be- 
yond expression. He took notice of this fact 
himself, as a proof how much the taste is liable to 
be influenced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a respectable and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior to 
what might have been expected from his station 
in life. He ascribed much of his own principles 
and feelings, to the early impressions he had re- 
ceived from his instructions and example. I re- 
collect that he once applied to him (and he added, 
that the passage was a literal statement of fact) 
the two last lines of the following passage in the 
Minstrel ; the Avhole of which he repeated with 
great enthusiasm. 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 

Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust. 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live ? 

Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 

No : heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 

Bright through th' eternal year of love's triumph- 
ant reign. 

Thig truth sublime, his simple sire had taught ; 
In sooth, ^tivas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Bums' early education, I 
cannot say any thing with certainty. He always 
spoke with respect and gratitude of the school- 
master who had taught him to read English, and 
who, finding in his scholar a more than ordinary 
ardour for knowledge, had been at pains to in- 
struct him in the grammatical principles of the 
language. He began the study of Latin, but 



dropped it before he had finished the verbs. 1 
have sometimes heard bun quote a few Latin 
words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c., but they 
seemed to be such as he had caught from conver- 
sation, and which he repeated by rote. I think 
he had a project, after he came to Edinburgh, of 
prosecuting the study under his intimate friend, 
the late Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the 
grammar-school here ; but I do not know that be 
ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word 
or phrase from that language. It is possible that 
his knowledge, in this respect, might be more ex- 
tensive than I suppose it to be ; but this you can 
learn from his more intimate acquaintance. It 
would be worth while to inquire, whether he was 
able to read the French authors with such faci- 
lity, as to receive from them any improvement to 
his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much— 
nor would I believe it, but on very strong and 
pointed evidence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was well 
instructed in arithmetic, and knew something of 
practical geometry, particularly of surveying.— 
All his other attainments were entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the win- 
ter 1788-89*, when he passed an evening with 
me at Drumseugh, in the neighbourhood of Edin- 
burgh, where I was then living. My friend Mr. 
Alison was the only other person in company. I 
never saw him more agreeable or interesting. A 
present which Mr. Alison sent him afterwards of 
his Essays on Taste, drew from Bums a letter of 
acknowledgment, which I remember to have read 
with some degree of surprise at the distinct con- 
ception he appeared from it to have formed, of 
the general principles of the doctrine of associa- 
tion. When I saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire, last 
autumn, I forgot to inquire if the letter be still in 
existence. If it is, you may easily procure it, bjr 
means of our friend Mr. Houlbrookef." 



THE scene that opened on our bard in Edin* 
burgh was altogether new, and, in a variety of 
other respects, highly interesting; especially to 
one of his disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself " suddenly 
translated frojn the veriest shades of life," into 
the presence, and, indeed, into the society, of a 
number of persons, previously known to him by 
report as of the highest distinction in his country, 
and whose characters it was natural for him to 
examine with no common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his recep- 
tion was particularly flattering. The late Dr. Ro- 
bertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. 
Mackenzie, and Mr. Fraser Tytler, may be men- 

• " Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with con- 
fidence, M'ith respect to the particular year. Some 
of my other dates may possibly require con-ectioPj 
as I keep no journal of such occurrences. 

t See General Correspondence, No. CXII, 



S4 



LIFE OF 



tioned in the list of those who perceived his un- 
common talents, Avho acknowledged more especi- 
ally his powers in conversation, and who interest- 
ed themselves in the cultivation of his genius. In 
Edinburgh, literary and fashionable society are a 
good deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable 
guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, and 
frequently received from female beauty and ele- 
gance, those attentions, above all others, most 
grateful to him. At the table of lord Monboddo 
he was a frtquent guest; and while he enjoyed 
the society, and partook of the hospitalities of the 
venerable j udge, he experienced the kindness and 
condescension of his lovely and accomplished 
daughter. The singular beauty of this young 
lady was illuminated by that happj' expression of 
countenance which results from the union of cul- 
tivated taste and superior understanding, with the 
finest affections of the mLnd. The influence of 
siieh attractions was not unfelt by our poet. 
" There has not been any thing like Miss Bur- 
net," said he, in a letter to a friend, " in all the 
combination of beauty, grace, and goodness, the 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the 
first day of her existence*." In his Address to 
Edinburgh, she is celebrated in a strain of still 
greater elevation ; 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 

I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divinef !" 

This lovely woman died a few years aftei-wards 
in the flower of youth. Our bard expressed his 
sensibility on that occasion, in verses addressed 
to her memoryj. 

Among the men of rank and fashion. Burns 
was particularly distinguished by James, earl of 
Glencairn. On the motion of this nobleman, the 
Caledonian Hunt, an association of the principal 
of the nobility and gentry of Scotland, extended 
their patronage to our bard, and admitted him to 
their gay orgies. He repaid their notice by a de- 
dication of the enlai-ged and improved edition of 
his poems, in which he has celebrated their patri- 
otism and independence in very animated terms. 

" I congratulate my country, that the blood of 
her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and 
that, fi'om your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and li- 
berty. ********* May cor- 
ruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; 
and may tjTaiuiy in the ruler, and licentiousness 
in the people, equally find in you an inexorable 
foe§.'" 

It is to be presumed, that these generous senti- 
ments, uttered at an sera singularly propitious to 
independence of chai-acter and conduct, were fa- 
vourably received by the persons to w hom they 
•were addressed, and that they were echoed from 
every bosom, as well as from that of the earl of 

* Sec General Correspondence, No. IX. 
+ See Poems, 

X See General Correspondence, No, CI. 
& Sec Dedication to Foet}?s, 



Glencaii-n. This accomplished nobleman, a scho- 
lar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon after- 
wards. Had he lived, and had his power equalled 
his wishes, Scotland might still have exulted in 
the genius, instead of lamenting the early fate of 
her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with 
habits of temperance and regularity ; and Edin- 
burgh, at the pei-iod of which we speak, contained 
perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of con- 
siderable talents, devoted to social excesses, in 
which their talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this des- 
cription, with the usual vehemence of his charac- 
ter. His generous aflTections, his ardent elo- 
quence, his brilliant and daring imagination, fit- 
ted him to be the idol of such associations ; and, 
accustoming himself to conversation of unlimited 
range, and to festive indulgences that scorned 
restraint, he gradually lost some portion of his 
relish for the more pure, but less poignant plea- 
sui-es, to be found in the circles of taste, ele- 
gance, and literature. The sudden alteration in 
his habits of life, operated on him physically, as 
well as morally. The humble fare of an Ayi-shire 
peasant, he had exchanged for the luxuries of the 
Scottish metropolis, and the effects of this change 
on his ardent constitution, could not be inconside- 
rable. But, whatever influence might be pi-oduced 
on his conduct, his excellent understanding suf- 
fered no corresponding debasement. He estimated 
his friends and associates of every description at 
their proper value, and appreciated his own con- 
duct with a precision, that might give scope to 
much curious and melancholy reflection. He saw 
his danger, and at times formed resolutions to 
guard against it; but he had embarked on the 
tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- 
thentic, though imperfect document remains, in 
a book which he procured in the spring of 1787, 
for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of re- 
cording in it whatever seemed worthy of obser- 
vation. The following extracts may serve as a 
specimen. 

Edinburgh, April 9tlt, 1787. 
" As I have seen a good deal of human life in 
Edinburgh, a great many characters which are 
new, to one bred up in the shades of life as I 
have been, I am determined to take down my re- 
marks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to 
Mr. Palgrave, that " half a w ord fixed, upon, or 
near the spot, is worth a cart load of recollec- 
tion." I don't know how it is with the world in 
general, but with me, making my remarks is by 
no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one 
to laugh with me, some one to be grave with 
me, some one to please me and help my discrimi- 
nation, with his or her own remark, and at times, 
no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetration. 
The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- 
bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that vei-y few 
think it worth their while to make any observa- 
tion on what passes around them, except where 
that observation is a sucker or branch of the- 



ROBERT BURNS. 



^5 



darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. 
Nor am I sure, notwithstauding all the sentimen- 
tal flights of novel-writers, and the sage philoso- 
phy of moralists, whether we are capable of so 
intimate and coixlial a coalition of friendship, as 
that one man may pour out his bosom, his every 
thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, 
with unreserved confidence to anotlier, without 
hazard of losing part of that respect which man 
deserves from man ; or, fi-om the unavoidable im- 
perfections attending human nature, of one day 
repenting his confidence. 

" For these reasons, I am determined to make 
these pages my confidant. I will sketch every 
character that any way strikes me, to the best of 
my power, witli unshrinking justice. I will in- 
sert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old 
law phrase, ivithout feud or favour. — Where I hit 
on any thing clever, my own applause will, in 
some measure, feast my vanity ; and, begging Pa- 
troclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and 
key a security, at least equal to the bosom of any 
friend wliatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my love-ad- 
ventures, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles of 
fortune on my hardship ; my poems and frag- 
ments that must never see the light, shall be oc- 
casionally inserted.— In short, never did four shil- 
lings purchase so much friendship, since confi- 
dence went first to market, or honesty was set up 
to sale. 

" To these seemingly invidious, but too just 
ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully 
make one exception — the connexion between two 
persons of different sexes, when their interests are 
united and absorbed by the tie of love — 

When thought meets thought, ere from the lips 

it part. 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the 

heart. 

There, confidence, confidence that exalts them 
the more in one another's opinion, that endears 
them the more to each other's hearts, unresei-ved- 
ly " reigns and revels." But this is not my lot, 
and in my situation, if I am wise (which, by the 
bye, I have no great chance of being), jny fate 
should be cast with the psalmist's sparrow, " to 
watch alone on the house tops" — Oh, the pity ! 
******** 
" There are few of the sore evils under the 
sun, give me more uneasiness and chagrin, than 
the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of 
avowed worth, is received every where, with the 
reception which a mere ordinary character, deco- 
rated with the trappings and futile distinctions of 
fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his 
breast glowing with honest piide, conscious that 
men are born equal, still giving honour to ivhoin 
honour is due; he meets at a great man's table a 
squire something, or a sir somebody ; he knows 
the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or 
whatever he is, a share of his good wishes beyond 
perhaps any one at table; yet, how will it morti- 
fy hiui to see a fellow, whose abilities would 
scarcely have made an elghtpennij tailor, and 



whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet 
with attention and notice, that are withheld from 
the son of genius and poverty I 

" The noble G has wounded me to the 

soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and 
love him. He showed so much attention, en- 
grossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead 
at table (the whole company consisted of his lord- 
ship, dunderpate, and mysell ), that I was within 
half a point of throwing down n)y gage of con- 
temptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and 
looked so benevolently good at parting. God 
bless him ! though I should never see him more, 
I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleas- 
ed to think I am so capable of the throes of gra- 
titude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. 

" With I am more at my ease. I never 

respect him with humble veneration ; but when 
he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or, still 
more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and 
meets me on equal ground in conversation, my 
heart overflows with what is called liking. When 
he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, 
or when his eye measures the difference of our 
points of elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely 
any emotion, what do I care for him or his pomp 
either ? 

• *****•* 

The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very im- 
perfectly executed. He has inserted in it few or 
no incidents, but several observations and reflec- 
tions, of which the greater part that are proper 
for the public eye, will be found interwoven in 
the volume of his letters. The most curious par- 
ticulars in the book, are the delineations of the 
characters he met with. These are not nume- 
rous ; but they are chiefly of persons of distinc- 
tion in the republic of letters, and nothing but 
the delicacy and respect due to living characters 
prevents us from committing them to the press. 
Though it appears that, in his conversation, he 
was sometimes disposed to sarcastic remarks on 
the men with whom he lived, nothing of this 
kind is discoverable in these more deliberate ef- 
forts of his understanding, which, while they ex- 
hibit great clearness of discrimination, manifest 
also the wish, as well as the power, to bestow 
high and generous praise. 

By the new edition of his poems. Burns ac- 
quired a sum of money, that enabled him not only 
to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, but to 
gratify a desire he had long entertained, of visit- 
ing those parts of his native country, most at- 
tractive by their beauty or their gi-andeur ; a de- 
sire which the return of summer naturally i-e- 
vived. I'he scenery on the banks of the Tweed, 
and of its tributary streams, strongly interested 
his fancy ; and, accordingly, he left Edinburgh on 
the 6ih of May, 1787, on a tour through a coun- 
try so much celebrated in tlie rural songs of Scot- 
land. He travelled on horseback, and was ac- 
companied during some part of his journej' by 
Mr. Ainslie, now w riter to the signet, a gentleman 
w ho enjoyed much of his friendshii> and of his 
confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, which. 



S6 



LIFE OF 



however, contains only occasional remarks on the 
scenery, and which is chiefly occupied with an 
account of the author's different stages, and with 
his observations on the various chai*acters to whom 
he was introduced. In the course of this tour, he 
visited Mr. Ainslie, of Berrywell, the father of his 
companion; Mr. Brydone, the celebrated travel- 
ler, to whom he carried a letter of introduction 
from Mr. Mackenzie ; the reverend Dr. Sommer- 
ville, of Jedburgh, the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. 
Scott, of Wauchope ; Dr. Elliot, a physician, re- 
tired to a romantic spot on the banks of the 
Roole; sir Alexander Don; sir James Hall, of 
Dunglass ; and a great variety of other respecta- 
ble characters. Every where the fame of the 
poet had spread before him, and every where he 
received the most hospitable and flattering atten- 
tions. At Jedburgh he continued several days, 
and was honoured by the magistrates with the 
freedom of their borough. The following may 
serve as a specimen of this tour, which the per- 
petual reference to living characters, prevents 
our giving at large. 

" Saturday, May 6th. Left Edinburgh— Lam- 
mer-muir-hills, miserably dreary in general, but at 
times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse, 
Reach Berrjwell. » * * The family-meeting 
with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; 
pai'ticularly the sister. * * * 

" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard 
Dr. Bowmaker. * » * 

" Monday. Coldstream— glorious river Tweed 
—clear and majestic— fine bridge— dine at Cold- 
stream, with Mr. Ainslie, and Mr. Foreman. 
Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. 
Drink tea at Lenel-House, with Mr. and Mrs. 
Brydone. * * * Reception extremely flat- 
tering. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso— charming si- 
tuation of the town— fine bridge over the Tweed. 
Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of 
the river, especially on the Scotch side. * * * 
Visit Roxborough palace— fine situation of it. 
Ruins of Roxborough castle— a holly-bush grow- 
ing where James the second was accidentally 
idlled by the bursting of a cannon. A small old 
religious ruin, and a fine old garden, planted by 
the religious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hot- 
tentot, a maitre d'hotel of the duke's !— Climate 
and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburgh- 
shire, superior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip 
and sheep-husbandry, their great improvements. 
• * * Low markets, consequently low lands 
—magnificence of farmers and farm-houses. Come 
up the Tiviot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh to lie, 
and so wish myself good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. • • • 
Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with 
gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathe- 
dral. All the towns here have the appearance of 
old rude grandeur, but extremely idle.— Jed, a 
a fine romantic little river. Dined with captain 
Rutherford, * * * return to Jedburgli. Walk 
up the Jtd with some ladies to be shown Love- 
lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Intro- 



duced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Mr. Sommer- 
ville, the clergyman of the psirish, a man, and ft 
gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. 

• »•*••• 

" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the 
magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with some melan- 
choly sensations. 

" Monday, May 14th, Kelso. Dine with the 
farmers' club— all gentlemen talking of high mat- 
ters—each of them keeps a hunter from 30/. to 
sol. value, and attends the fox-hunting club in 
the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the 
club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In 
his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly 
like my dear old friend Robert Muir.— Every 
thing in his house elegant. He offers to accom- 
pany me in my English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with sir Alexander Don ; a 
very wet day. * * * Sleep at Mr. Ker's 
again, and set out next day for Melross— visit 
Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. 
Cross the Leader and come up the Tweed to Mel- 
ross. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glori- 
ous ruin.— Come to Selkirk up the banks of Et- 
trick. The whole country hereabouts, both ob 
Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stoney." 

• «••••• 

Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
intei-esting scenery, Bums crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr, Ker, and Mr. Hood, two 
gentlemen with whom he had become acquainted 
in the course of his tour, accompanied him. He 
visited Alnwick-castle, the princely seat of the 
duke of Northumberland ; the hermitage and old 
castle of Warks worth ; Morpeth and Newcastle.^ 
In this last town he spent two days, and then pro- 
ceeded to the south-west by Hexham and War- 
drue, to Carlisle.— After spending a day at Car- 
lisle, with his friend Mr. Mitchel, he returned into 
Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates 
abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became 
acquainted in the course of this journey, he has, 
in general, given some account ; and almost al- 
ways a favourable one. That on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of the Tiviot, our bard should 
find nymphs that were beautiful, is what might 
be confidently presumed. Two of these are par^ 
ticularly described in his journal. But it does 
not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, 
produced any effort of his muse, as was to have 
been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns 
proceeded to Dumfries, and thence through San- 
quhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, 
where he anived about the 8th of June, 1787, af- 
ter a long abseiifie of six busy and eventful 
months. It will easily be conceived with what 
pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, 
his brothers, and sisters. He had left them poor, 
and comparatively friendless ; he returned to 
them high in public estimation, and easy in his 
circumstances. He returned to them unchanged 
in his ai*dent affections, and ready to share with 
them, to the uttermost farthing, the pittance that 
fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he 



ROBERT BURN5. 



S7 



proceeded ag^ain to Edinburgh, and immediately 
set out on a journey to the Hij^hlands. Of tliis 
tour, no particulars have lx>eu found among his 
manuscripts. A letter to his fi'iend Mr. Ainslie, 
dated, Arrac/ias, near Crochairbas, by Lochleary, 
June 28, 1787, commences as follows: 

" I write you this on my tour through a coun- 
try, where savage streams tumble over savage 
mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. 
My last stage was Inverary— to-morrow night's 
stage, Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins." 

From this journey. Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and ex- 
tending his acquaintance throughout the coun- 
try, where he was now very generally known and 
admired. In August, he again visited Edinburgh, 
whence he undertook another journey towards 
the middle of this month, in company with Mr. 
M. Adair, now Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, of which 
this gentleman has favoured us with the follow- 
ing account. 

" Bums and I left Edinburgh together, in Au- 
gust, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and Carron, 
to Stirling. We visited the iron-works at Carron, 
with which the poet was forcibly struck. The re- 
semblance between that place, and its inhabitants, 
to the cave of the Cyclops, which must have oc- 
curred to every classical visitor, presented itself 
to Burns. At Stirling, the prospects from the 
castle strongly interested him ; in a former visit 
to wliich, his national feelings had been power- 
fully excited by the ruinous and roofless state of 
the hall in whicli the Scottish parliaments had 
frequently been held. His indignation had vent- 
ed itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical 
lines, which had given much offence, and which 
he took this opportunity of erasing, by breaking 
the pane of the window at the inn on which they 
were wTitten. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of tra- 
vellers from Edinburgh, among whon^ was a cha- 
racter in many respects congenial with that of 
Bums. This was Nicol, one of the teachers of 
the high-grammar-school, at Edinburgh— the same 
wit and power of conversation ; tlie same fond- 
ness for convivial societj , and thouglitlessness of 
to-morrow, characterized both. Jacobilical pi-iu- 
ciples in politics wei-e common to both of them ; 
and these have been suspected, since the revolu- 
tion of France, to have given place in each, to 
opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I 
have preserved no memorabilia of their conversa- 
tion, either on this or on other occasions, when I 
happened to meet them together. Many songs 
were sung ; which I mention for the sake of ob- 
serving, that when Burns was called on in his 
turn, he was accustomed, instead of singing, to 
recite one or other of his own shorter poems, with 
a tone and emphasis, which, though not correct 
or harmonious, were impressive anil patJulic. 
This he did on the present occasion. 

" From Stirling we went next morning througli 
the romantic and fertile vale of Devon to Har- 



vieston, in Clackmannanshire, then inhabited by 
Mrs. Hamilton, with tlie younger part of whose 
family Burns had been previously acquainted. He 
introduced me to the family, and there was form- 
ed my first acquaintance witli Mrs. Hamiltoi»'s 
eldest daughter, to wiiom I have been married for 
nine years. Thus was I indebted to Burns for a 
connection from which I have derived, and expect 
further to derive, much happiness. 

" During a residence of al>out ten days at Har- 
vieston, we made excursions to visit various parts 
of the surrounding scenery, inferior to none in 
Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and romjuitic in- 
terest ; particularly Castle Campbell, the ancient 
seat of the family of Argyle ; and the famous ca- 
taract of the Devon, called the Caldron Linn ; 
and the Rumbling Bridge, a single broad arch, 
thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to be believ- 
ed, across the river, at about the height of a hun- 
dred feet above its bed. I am surprised that none 
of these scenes should have called forth an exer- 
tion of Bums' muse. But I doubt if he had much 
taste for the picturesque. I well remember, that 
the ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on 
this jaunt, expressed their disappoijitment at his 
not expressing in more glowing and fervid lan- 
guage, his impressions of the Caldron Limi scene, 
certainly liighJy sublime, and somewhat hori-ible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, a 
lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of that 
race which gave the Scottish throne its brightest 
ornament, interested his feelings more powei-fully. 
This venerable dame, with characteristical digni- 
ty, informed me, on my observing, that I believed 
she was descended from the family of Robert 
Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung from her 
family. Though almost deprived of speech by 
a paralytic affection, she i)reserved her hospi- 
tality and urbanity. She was in possession of the 
liero's helmet and two-handed sword, with which 
she conferred on Burns and myself the honour of 
knighthood, remarking, that she had a better 
right to confer that title than some people. * * 
You will of course conclude that the old lady's 
political tenets were as Jacobitical as the poet's, 
a conformity which contributed not a little to the 
cordiality of our reception and ejitertainment.— 
She gave as her first toast after dinner, Awa^ 
Uncos, or, Away with the strangers.— Who these 
strangers were, you will readily understand. Mrs. 
A. corrects me by saying it should be Hooi, or 
Hoohi uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct 
their dogs to drive away the sheep ! 

" We i-eturned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on 
the shore of Lochleven) and Queen's-ferry. I am 
inclined to think Burns knew nothing of poor 
Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, or 
had died there a short while before. A meeting 
between tlie bards, or a visit to the desertetl cot- 
tage and early grave of poor Bruce, would liave 
been higlily ijiteresling*. 

"At Dumfernding we visitetl the ruined abbey, 
and the abbey-church, now consecrated to presby- 
lerian worship. Here I mounted the cufti/ stool, 
or stool of repentance, assuming the ciiaracter of 

* Bruce died some rears before. E. 



ss 



LIFE OF 



a penitent for fornication ; while Burns, from the 
pulpit, addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and 
exhortation, parodied from that which had been 
delivered to himself in Aj^rshire, where he had, as 
he assured me, once been one of seven who 
mounted the scat of shame together. 

" In the church-yard, two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common venera- 
tion. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred 
fervour, and heartily {siitis lit mos erat) execi-ated 
the worse than Gothic neglect of the first of 
Scottish hei-oes*." 

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of the 
Devon should have failed to call forth any exer- 
tion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature singu- 
lar; and the disappointment felt at his not ex- 
pressing in more glowing language his emotions 
on the sight of the faraous cataract of that river, 
is similar to what was felt by the friends of Burns 
on other occasions of the same nature. Yet, the 
inference that Dr. Adair seems inclined to draw 
from it, that he had little taste for the picturesque^ 
might be questioned, even if it stood uncontro- 
verted by other evidence. The muse of Burns 
was in a high degree capricious ; she came un- 
called, and often refused to attend at his bidding. 
Of all the numerous subjects suggested to him by 
his friends and correspondents, there is scarcely 
one that he adopted. The very expectation that 
a particular occasion would excite the energies of 
fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed in him, 
as in other poets, destnictive of the effect expect- 
ed. Hence, perhaps, may be explained, why the 
banks of the Devon and of the Tweed form no 
part of the subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may, perhaps, ex- 
plain the want of emotion with which he viewed 
the Caldron Lijiti. Cei'tainly there are no affec- 
tions of the mind more deadened by the influence 
of previous expectation, than those arising from 
the sight of natural objects, and more especially 
of objects of grandeur. Minute descriptions of 
scenes of a sublime nature, should never be given 
to those who are about to view them, particularly 
if they are persons of great strength and sensibi- 
lity of imagination. Language seldom or never 
conveys an adequate idea of such objects ; but, 
in the mind of a great poet, it may excite a pic- 
ture that far transcends them. The imagination 
of Burns might form a cataract, in compai-ison 
with which, the Caldron Linn should seem the 
purling of a rill, and even the mighty falls of Ni- 
agara, an humble cascadef. 

* Extracted from a letter of Dr. Adair to the 
editor. 

t This reasoning might be extended, with some 
modifications, to objects of sight of every kind. 
To have formed before-hand a distinct i)icture in 
the mind of any interesting person or thing, ge- 
nerally lessens the pleasure of the first meeting 
with them. Though this picture be not superior 
or even equal to the reality, still it can*never be 
expected to be an exact resemblance ; andf the 
disappointment felt at finding the object some- 



Whether these suggestions may assist in ex- 
plaining our bard's deficiency of impression on 
the occasion referred to, or whether it ought ra- 
ther to be imputed to some pre-occupation, or in- 
disposition of mind, we presume not to decide ; 
but, that he was in general feelingly alive to the 
beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be supported 
by irresistible evidence. It is true, this pleasui*e 
was greatly heightened in his mind, as might be 
expected, when combined with moral emotions of 
a kind with which it happily unites. That under 
this association Burns contemplated the scenery 
of the Devon with the eye of a genuine poet, the 
following lines, written at this very pei'iod, may 
bear witness. 

On a young lady, residing on the banks of the 
small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but 
7vhose infant years "were spent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding De- 

A'on, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 

blooming fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew I 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou i-eptile that seizest 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 

The different journej's already mentioned did 
not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the 
beginning of September, he again set out from 
Edinburgh on a more extended tour to the High- 
lands, in company with Mr. Nicol, with whom he 
had now contracted a particular intimacy, which 
lasted during the remainder of his life. Mr. Nicol 
was of Dumfriesshire, of a descent equally hum- 
ble with our jjoet. Like him he rose by the 
strength of his talents, and fell by the strength 
of his passions. He died in the summer of 1797. 
Having received the elements of a classical in- 
struction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol made a 

thing different from what was expected, in- 
terrupts and dimishes the emotion that would 
otherwise be produced. In such cases, the second 
or third interview gives more pleasure than the 
first. — See The Elements of the Philosophy of the 
Human Mind, by Mr. Stervart,p, 484. Such pub- 
lications as The Guide to the Lakes, where every 
scene is described in the most minute manner, 
and sometimes with considerable exaggeration of 
language, are in this point of view objectionable. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



39 



very rapid and slng:iilar proficiency ; and, by early 
undertaking the office of an instructor himself, 
he acquired the means of entering himself at the 
University of Edinburgh. There he was first a 
student of theology, then a student of medicine, 
and was afterwards employed in the assistance 
and instruction of graduates in medicine, in those 
parts of their exercises in which the Latin lan- 
guage is employed. In this situation he was the 
contemporary and rival of the celebrated Dr. 
Brown, whom he resembled in the particulars of 
his history, as well as in the leading features of 
his character. The office of assistant-teacher in 
the high-school being vacant, it was, as usual, 
filled up by competition ; and, in the face of 
some prejudices, and perhaps of some well-found- 
ed objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, 
carried it from all the other candidates. This 
office he filled at the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented, that an acquaintance with 
the writers of Greece and Rome, does not always 
supply an original want of taste and coi-rectness, 
in manners and conduct ; and, where it fails of 
this effect, it sometimes inflames the native pride 
of temper, which treats with disdain those delica- 
cies in which it has not learnt to excel. It was 
thus with the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed 
by nature in a model of great strength, neither 
his person nor liis manners had any tincture of 
taste or elegance ; and his coarseness was not 
compensated by that romantic sensibility, and 
those towering flights of imagination, which dis- 
tinguished the conversation of Burns, in tlie blaze 
of whose genius, all the deficiencies of his man- 
ners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, and, 
jiassing through the heart of the Highlands, 
stretched northwards about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. There they bent their course eastward 
across the island, and returned by the shore of 
the German sea to Edinburgh. In the course of 
this tour, some particulars of which will be found 
in a letter of our bard to his brother*, they visit- 
ed a number of remarkable scenes, and the ima- 
gination of Burns was constantly excited by the 
wild and sublime scenery through which he pass- 
ed. Of this several proofs may be found in the 
poems formerly printedf. Of the history of one 
of these poems. The Humble Petition of Bruar 
TVaterX, and of the bard's visit to Athole-house, 
some particulars will be found in General Corres- 
pojidcnce, No. XXVIII.; and, by the favour of 
Mr. Walker of Perth, then residing in the family 
of the duke of Athole, we are enabled to give the 
following additional accoxint. 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his 
arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with 

* See General Correspondence, No. XXIX. 

t Lines on seeing some ivater-forvl in Lorh- 
Turit, a wild scene among the lulls of Ochtcrtyre.— 
Lines written 7vith a pencil over the chimney- 
piece, in the inn of Kenmorc, Taymontli.— Lines 
written ruith a pencil standing by (he fall of 
Fyers, near Lochness. 

t Sec Poems. 



him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The 
duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduc- 
tion, was from home ; but the duchess, being in- 
formed of his arrival, gave him an invitation to 
sup and sleep at Athole-house. He accepted the 
invitation, but, as the hour of supper was at some 
distance, begged I would in the interval be his 
guide through the grounds. It was already grow- 
ing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and un- 
certain view of their beauties, which the moon- 
light afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the 
state of his feelings at the time. I had often, 
like others, experienced the pleasures which arise 
from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- 
ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, 
where it is overhung by a woody precipice, fi-om 
which there is a noble waterfall, he threw himself 
on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a ten- 
der, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of 
imagination. I cannot help thinking it might 
have been here, tliat he conceived the idea of the 
following lines, which he afterwards introduced 
into his poem on Bruar Water, when only fancy- 
ing such a combination of objects, as were now 
present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, checquei'ing thro' the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed on. 
him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in 
proper time to supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he would 
conduct himself in company so different from 
what he had been accustomed to*. His manner 
was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared 
to have complete reliance on his own native good 
sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at 
once to perceive and to appreciate what was due 
to the company and to himself, and never to for- 
get a proper respect for the separate species of 
dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate 
conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with 
ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert 
his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone 
gave him a title to be there. The duke's fine 
young family attracted much of his admiration ; 
he drank tJieir healths as honest men and bonnie 
lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the 
company, and with which he has very felicitously 
closed his poemf. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most i-omantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conver- 
sation. As a specimen of his happiness of con- 
ception and strength of expression, I will mention 
a remark which he miide on his fellow-traveller, 
who was walking, at the time, a few paces before 

* In the preceding winter Burns had been in 
company of the highest rank in Edinburgh, but 
this description of his manners i« perfectly ap- 
plicable to his first appearance in such society. E. 

t See Poems. 



4^ 



LIFE OF 



us. He was a map of a robust, but clumsy per- 
son ; and while Burns was expressing to me the 
value he entertained for him, on account of his 
vigorous talents, although they were clouded at 
times by coarseness of manners ; " in short," he 
added, " his mind is like his body, he has a con- 
founded strong in-kneed sort of a soul." 

" Much attention was paid to Bums both be- 
fore and after the duke's return, of which he was 
perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at 
his departure I recommended to him, as the most 
appropriate return he could make, to write some 
descriptive verses on any of the scenes with which 
he had been so much delighted. After leaving 
Blair, he, by the duke's advice, visited the Falls 
of Brnar, and in a few days I received a letter 
from Inverness with the verses inclosed*." 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble faiuily of Athole, was in a high 
degree favourable ; it is certain, he was charmed 
■with the reception he received from them, and he 
often mentioned the two days he spent at Atbole- 
house, as amongst the happiest of his life. He 
was warmly invited to prolong his stay, but sacri- 
ficed his inclinations to his engagement with Mr. 
Nicol, which is the more to be regretted, as he 
would otherwise have been introduced to Mr. 
Dundas (then daily expected on a visit to the 
duke), a circumstance that might have had a fa- 
vourable influence on Burns' future fortunes. At 
Athole-house he met, for the first time, Mr. Gra- 
Jiam, of Fin try, to whom he was afterwards in- 
debted for his office in the excise. 

The letters and poems wliich he addressed to 
Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sensibility, 
and justify the supposition, that he would not 
have been deficient in gratitude, had he been ele- 
vated to a situation better suited to his disposition 
and to his talentst. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our 
poet and liis fellow-traveller arrived at Fochabers. 
In the course of the preceding winter. Burns had 
been introduced to die duchess of Gordon, at 
Edinburgh, and, presuming on this acquaintance, 
he proceeded to Gordon castle, leaving Mr. Nicol 
at the inn in the village. At the castle our poet 
was received with the utmost hospitality and kind- 
ness, and the family being about to sit down to 
dinner, he was invited to take his place at table 
as a matter of course. This invitation he ac- 
cepted, and, after drinking a few glasses of wine, 
he rose up, and proposed to withdraw. On being 
pressed to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, 
his engagement with his fellow-traveller ; and his 
noble host offering to send a servant to conduct 
Mr. Nicol to the castle. Burns insisted on under- 
taking that office himself. He was, however, ac- 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to. Mr. 
Cunningham, dated Perth, 24th Oct. 1707. 

The letter mentioned as written to Air. Walker 
by Mr. Bums, will be found in General Corres- 
pondence, No. XXVIII. 

t See the first Epistle to Mr. Graham, solicit- 
ing an employment in the excise. General Corres- 
pondence, No. LV ; and his second epistle, Po- 
einf. 



companied by a gentleman, a particular aequain- 
tance of the duke, by whom the invitation was 
delivered in all the forms of politeness. The in- 
vitation came too late ; the pride of Nicol was in- 
flamed into a high degree of passion, by the ne- 
glect which he had already suff*ered. He had or- 
dered the horses to be put to the carriage, being 
determined to proceed on his journey alone ; and 
they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, 
before the door of the inn, venting his anger on 
the postillion, for the slowness with which he 
obc) ed his commands. As no explanation nor en- 
treaty could change the purpose of his fellow- 
traveller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of 
separating from him entirely, or of instantly pro- 
ceeding with him on their journey. He chose the 
last of these alternatives, and seating liimself be- 
side Nicol in the post-chaise, with moitification 
and regret, he turned his back on Gordon castle, 
where he had promised himself some happy days. 
Sensible, however, of the great kindness of the no- 
ble family, he made the best return in his power, 
by the following poem*. 

I. 

Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
1 leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the sti-eam that sweetly laves 

The banks by castle Gordon. 
II. 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms, by castle Gordon. 
III. 
Wildly here, without controul, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood f 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave. 

By bonnie castle Gordont. 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater 
part of the winter 1787-8, and again entered into 
the society and dissipation of that metropolis. It 
appears, that on the 31st day of December, he at- 
tended a meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the 
lineal descendant of the Scottish race of kings, 

* This information is extracted from a letter 
of Dr. Couper of Fochabers, to the editor. 

t These verses our poet composed to be sung 
to Morag, a Highland air, of which he was ex- 
tremely fond< 



ROBERT BURNS. 



4i 



ihe late unfortunate prince Charles-Edward. 
Whatever miglit have been the wish or purpose 
of the original insti tutors of this annual meeting', 
iliere is no reason to suppose that tlie geiitleiuea 
of which it was at this time composed, were not 
perfectly loyal to the king on tlie throne. It is 
not to be conceived tliat they entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the 
house of Stewart ; but over their sparkling wine, 
they indulged the generous feelings which the re- 
collection of fallen greatness is calculated to in- 
spire ; and commemorated the heroic valour, 
which strove to sustain it in vain— valour worthy 
of a nobler cause and of a happier fortune. On 
this occasion, our bard took upon himself the of- 
fice of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, 
tliough deficient in the complicated rhythm and 
polished versification that such compositions re- 
quire, might, on a fair competition, where energy 
of feelings and of expression were alone in ques- 
tion, have won tlie butt of Malmsey from the real 
laureate of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a speci- 
men. 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more ; 
And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 
II. 
Ye honoured mighty dead .' 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, ar.d her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a mart) r in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 
To bold Balr.ierino's undying name. 
Whose soul of fire, liglued at heaven's high flame. 
Deserves tlie proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim*. 

III. 
Not unrevenged your fate shall be. 

It only lags the fiital hour; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snoAvy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

vale; 
So vengeance * * * 



In 



elating the incidents of our poet's life in 



* In the first part of this ode there is some 
beautiful imagery, which the poet afterwards in- 
terwove, in a happier manner, in the Chevalier^s 
Lament (sec General Correspondence, No. XLIV). 
But, if there were no other reasons for omitting 
to print the entire poem, the want of originality 
would be sufiicient. A considerable part of it is 
a kind of rant, for which, indeed, precedent may 
be cited in various other birth-day odes, but with 
which it is impossible lo go along. 



Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sen- 
timents of respect and sympathy with which he 
traced out the grave of his predecessor Fergusson, 
over whose aslies, in the Canongate church-yard, 
he obtained leave to erect an humble monument, 
which will be viewed by reflecting minds with no 
common interest, and which will awake in the 
bosom of kindred genitis, many a high emotion*. 
Neither should we pass over the continued friend- 
ship lie exjierienced from a poet then living, the 
amiable and accomplished Blacklock. — To his en- 
couraging advice, it was owing (as has already ap- 
peared) that Burns, instead of emigrating to the 
West Indies, repaired to Eilinburgh. He receiv- 
ed him there with all the ardour of afl^'ectionate 
admiration ; he eagerly introduced him to the 
respectable circle of his friends ; he consulted his 
interest ; he blazoned his fame ; he lavished upon 
him all the kindness of a generous and feeling 
heart, into which nothing selfish or envious tver 
found admittance. Among the friends to whom 
he introduced Burns, was Mr. Ramsay of Ochter- 
tyre, to whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn 
of 1787, at his delightful retirement in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of the 
Teith- Of this visit we have the following parti- 
culars. 

" I have been in the company of many men of 
genius," says Mr. Ramsay, " some of them poets, 
but never witnessed such flashes of intellectual 
brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- 
ment, sparks of celestial fii-e ! I never was more 
delighted, therefore, than with his company for 
two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I 
should have made little of him, for, in the game- 
ster's phrase, he did not always know when to 
play oft' and when to play on. * * * i not only 
proposed to him the writing of a play similar to 
the Gentle Shc/)lierd, quale m decet esse sororem, 
but Scottish Georgics, a subject which Thomson 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. What 
beautiful landscapes of rural life and manners, 
might not have been expected from a i)encil so 
faithful and forcible as his, which could have ex- 
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those 
in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who 
knows our swains in their unadulterated state, in- 
stantly recognizes as true to nature. But to have 
executed either of these plans, steadiness and ab- 
stractioii from company were wanting, not ta- 
lents. When I asked him whether the Edinburgh 
literati had mended his poems by their criticisms. 
'• sir," said he, " these gentlemen remind me of 
some spinsters in ray country, who spin their 
thread so fine, that it is neither fit for weft nor 
woof." He said he had not changed a word ex- 
cept one, to please Dr. Blairf." 

* See General Corrtspoiidence, Nos. XVIIl, 
XIX, and XX, where the eintaph will be found. 

t Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to th^ 
editor. This incorrigibility of Burns extended, 
however, only to his poems printed before he ar- 
rived in Edinburgh ; for, in regard to his unpub- 
lished poems, he was amenable to criticism, of 
which many proofs might be given. See some 
reinarks on this subject, Appendix to Poems. E. 
F 



42 



LIFE OF 



Having settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, 
in Febniaiy, 1788, Bums found himself master of 
nearly five hundred pounds, after discharging all 
his expenses. Two hundred pounds he immedi- 
ately advanced to his brotlier Gilbert, who had ta- 
ken upon himself the support of their aged mo- 
ther, and was struggling with many difficulties in 
the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder of this 
sum, and some farther eventual profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling himself for life 
in the occupation of agriculture, and took from 
Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, the farm of Eliisland, 
on the banks of the river Nith, six miles above 
Dumfries, on which he entered on Whitsunday, 
1788. Having been previously recommended to 
the board of excise, his name had been put on 
the list of candidates for the humble office! of a 
gauger or exciseman ; and he immediately applied 
to acquiring the information necessai*y for filling 
that office, when the honourable board might 
judge it proper to employ him. He expected to 
be called into service in the district in which his 
farm was situated, and vainly hoped to unite with 
success, the labours of the farm, with the duties 
of the exciseman. 

When Burns had, in this manner, arranged his 
plans for futurity, his generous heart turned to 
the object of his most ardent attachment, and, lis- 
tening to no considerations but those of honour 
and affection, he joined with her in a public de- 
claration of marriage, thus legalizing their union, 
and rendering it permanent for life*. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a spe- 
cimen of his poetry had recommended him to Mr. 
Miller of Dalswinton. Understanding that he in- 
tended to resume the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller 
had invited him, in the spring of 1787, to view his 
estate in Nithsdale, offering him at the same time 
the choice of any of his farms out of lease, at 
such a rent as Burns and his friends might judge 
proper. It was not in the nature of Bums to 
take an undue advantage of the liberality of Mr. 
Miller. He proceeded in this business, however, 
with more than usual deliberation. Having made 
choice of the farm of Eliisland, he employed two 
of his friends, skilled in the value of land, to exa- 
mine it; and, with their approbation, offered a 
rent to Mr. Miller, which was immediately accept- 
ed. It was not convenient for Mrs. Bums to re- 
move immediately from Ayrshire, and our poet, 
therefore, took up his residence alone at Eliisland 
to prepare for the reception of his wife and cliil- 
dren, who joined him towards the end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found him- 
self, was calculated to awaken reflection. The dif- 
ferent steps he had of late taken, were, in their 
nature, highly important, and might be said to 
have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He had 
become a husband and a father ; he had engaged 
in the management of a considerable farm, a dif- 
ficult and laborious undertaking; in his success 
the happiness of his family was involved ; it was 
time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety and dissipa- 
tion of which he had been too much enamoured ; 
to ponder seriously on the past, and to form vir- 

* Seep, 18. 



tuous resolutions respecting the future. That such 
was actually the state of his mind, the following 
extract from his common-place book may bear 
witness. 

" Eliisland, Sunday, 14th June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. ' Lord, what is man!' What a 
bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, 
and fancies ! And what a capricious kind of ex- 
istence he has here \ * * * There is, indeed, an 
elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, virtue salt 
survives. 

Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are and we must shortly be ? 

' A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the 
service, that I would almost at any time, with 
Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my mother's 
lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to struggle 
with the stream till some sudden squall shall over- 
set the silly vessel, or, in the listless return of 
years, its own craziness reduce it to a Mreck. 
Farewell now to those giddy follies, those varnish- 
ed vices, which, though half-sanctified by the be- 
witching levity of wit and humour, are at best 
but thriftless idling with the precious current of 
existence ; nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like 
the plains of Jericho, the water is naught and the 
ground barren, and nothing short of a supernatu- 
rally-g^fted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me 
hardest to care, if virtue and religion were to be 
any thing with me but names, was what in a few 
seasons I must have resolved on ; in my present 
situation it was absolutely necessaiT^. Humanity, 
generosity, honest pride of character, justice to 
my own happiness for after-life, so fai* as it could 
depend (which it surely will a great deal) on in- 
ternal peace ; all these joined their warmest suf- 
frages, their most powerful solicitations, with a 
rooted attachment, to urge the step I have taken. 
Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. 
—I can fancy how, but have never seen where, I 
could have made a better choice. Come then, let 
me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious 
passage in Young— 

' On i-eason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man!' " 

Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns 
immediately engaged in re-building the dwelling- 
house on his farm, which, in the state he found it, 
was inadequate to the accommodation of his fami- 
ly. On this occasion, he himself resumed at times 
the occupation of a labourer, and found neither 
his strength nor his sldll impaired.— r leased with 
survejing the grounds he was about to cultivate, 
and with the rearing of a building that should 
give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he 
fondly hoped, to his own gray hairs, sentiments of 



ROBERT BURNS. 



43 



inlependence buoyed up his mind, pictures of do- 
mestic content and peace rose on his imagfination ; 
and a few days passed away, as he himself in- 
forms us, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, 
■which he had ever experienced*. 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period 
of his life, our poet was without the society of 
his wife and children. A great change had taken 
place in his situation ; his old habits were broken ; 
and the new circumstances in which he was pla- 
ced, were calculated to give a new direction to his 
thoughts and conductt. But his application to 
the cares and labours of his farm, was interrupted 
by several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; and as 
the distance was too great for a single day's jour- 
ney, he generally spent a night at an inn on the 
road. On such occasions he sometimes fell into 
company, and forgot the resolutions he had form- 
ed. In a little while temptation assailed him 
nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention 
of his neighbours, and he soon for)ned a general 
acquaintance in the district in which he lived. 
The public voice had now pronounced on the 
subject of his talents ; the reception he had met 
with in Edinburgh, had given him the currency 
■which fashion bestows ; he had surmounted the 
prejudices arising from his humble birth ; and he 
was received at the table of the gentlemen of 
Nithsdale, with welcome, with kindness, and even 
•with respect. Their social parties too often se- 
duced him from his rustic labours and his rustic 
fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of his resolu- 
tions, and inflamed those propensities wliich tem- 
perance might have weakened, and prudence ul- 
timately suppressed^:. It was not long, therefore, 

* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost al- 
ways gfave rise in our poet to some production of 
his muse. His sentiments on this occasion were 
in part expressed by the following vigorous and 
characteristic, though not very delicate, verses ; 
they are an imitation of an old ballad. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, " 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There— thanks to nae-body ; 

1 hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body 's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body ; 
I hae a gude braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body ; 
If nae-body care for me, 

I'll care for nae-body. 

t Mrs. Burns was about to be confined in child- 
bed, and the house at Ellisland was rebuilding. 
t The poem of The Whistle celebrates a Bac- 



before Bums began to view his farm with dislike 
and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked 
to an office in the excise as a certain means of 
livelihood, should his other expectations fail. As 
has already been mentioned, he had been recom- 
mended to the board of excise, and had received 
the instruction necessary for such a situation. He 
now applied to be employed ; and, by the interest 
of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was appointed excise- 
man, or, as it is vulgarly called, gauger, of the 
district in which he lived. His farm was after 
this, in a great measure, abandoned to servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new 
appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the spring, 
directing his plough, a labour in which he excell- 
ed ; or with a white sheet containing his seed-corn 
slung across his shoulders, striding with measured 
steps along his turued-up furrows, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. But his farm no longer 
occupied the principal part of his care or his 
thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now 
in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, 
this high-minded poet was pursuing the defaulters 
of the revenue, among the hills and vales of Niths- 
dale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of 
nature, and muttering his wayward fancies as he 
moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, in a let- 
ter to the editor, " when passing through Dum- 
friesshire, on a tour to the south, with Dr. Steuart 
of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly, near Close- 
burn, I said to my companion, that is Burns. On 
coming to the inn, the ostler told us he would be 
back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where 
he met with any thing seizable, he was no better 
than any other gauger ; in every thing else, that 
he was perfectly a gentleman. After leaving a 
note to be delivered to him on his return, I pro- 
ceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, 
&c. I was much pleased with his uxor Sabina 
qualis, and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike 
the habitation of ordinary rustics. In the even- 
ing he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said as 
lie enteretl, I come, to use the words of Shakes- 
peare, stexved in haste. In fact, he had ridden 
incredibly fast after recei^ang my note. We fell 
into conversation directly, and soon got into the 
mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he 

chanalian contest among three gentlemen of 
Nithsdale, where Burns appears as umpire. Mr. 
Riddell died before our bard, who wrote some 
elegiac verses to his memory. From him, and 
from all the members of his family, Burns receiv- 
ed not kindness only, but friendship ; and the so- 
ciety he met in general at Friar's Carse, was cal- 
culated to improve his habits, as well as his man- 
ners. Mr. Ferguson, of Craigdarroch, so well 
known for his eloquence and social talents, died 
soon after our poet. Sir Robert Laurie, the third 
person in the drama, sur\'ives, and has since been 
engaged in contests of a bloodier nature. Long 
may he live to fight the battles of his country ! 



44 



LIFE OF 



had now gotten a story for a drama, which he 
was to call Rub Macqiieclian's Elshon, from a po- 
pular story of Robert Bruce being defeated on 
the water of Caern, when the heel of his boot 
having loosened in his flight, he applied to Ro- 
bert Macqucchan to fix it ; who, to make sure, 
ran his awl nine inches up the king's heel. We 
were now going on at a great rate, when Mr. 

S popped in his head, which put a stop to our 

discourse, wliich had become very interesting. 
Yet, in a little while, it was resumed, and such 
Avas the force and versatility of the bard's genius, 

that he made the tears run down Mr. S 's 

cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic straiji. * * * 
From that time we met no more, and I was griev- 
ed at the reports of him afterwards. Poor Burns ! 
•we shall hardly ever see his like again. He was, 
in truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular 
in its motions, which did not do good proportion- 
ed to the blaze of light it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men, who had before met with him in Edinburgh, 
paid a visit to hira at Ellisland. On calling at the 
house, they were informed that he had walked 
out on the banks of the river ; and, dismounting 
from their horses, they proceeded in search of 
him.— On a rock that projected into the stream, 
tliey saw a man employed in angling, of a singu- 
lar appearance. He had a cap made of a fox's 
skin on his head, a loose great-coat fixed round 
him by a belt, from which depended an enormous 
Highland broad-sword. It \\as Burns. He re- 
ceived them with great cordiality, and asked them 
to share his humble dinner— an invitation which 
they accepted. On the table they found boiled 
beef, with vegetables, and barley-broth, after the 
ananner of Scotland ; of which they partook hear- 
tily. After dinner, the bard told them ingenuous- 
ly that he had no wine to offer them, nothing bet- 
ter than Highland whiskey, a bottle of which Mrs. 
Burns set on the board. He produced at the 
same time liis punch-bowl, made of Inverary-mar- 
i)»e, and, mixing the spirit with water and sugar, 
lilled their glasses, and invited them to drink*. 
'("he travellers were in haste, and besides, the fla- 
-vour of the whiskey, to theii- sutliron palates, was 
scarcely tolerable ; but the generous poet offered 
Ihem his best, and his ardent hospitality they 
iound it impossible to resist. Burns was in his 
happiest mood, and the chai'ms of his conversation 
were altogether fascinating. He ranged over a 
great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he 
Touched. He related the tales of his infancy and 
of his youth ; he recited some of the gayest and 
^ome of the tenderest of his poems ; in the wild- 
*>st of his strains of mirth, he tln-ew in some 
Touches of melancholy, and spread around him 
the electric emotions of his powerful mind. The 
Highland whiskey improved in its flavour ; the 
marble-bowl was again and again emptied and re- 
jdenislied ; the guests of o«ir poet forgot the flight 
of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the hour 
of midnight they lost their way in returning to 

* This bowl was made of the stone of which 
Tnverary-house is built ; the mansion of the fa- 
mjly of Argjie. This stone is the Irrliis ollaris. 



Dumfries, and could scarcely distinguish it when 
assisted by the morning's dawn*. 

Besides his duties in the excise, and his social 
pleasures, other circumstances intei-fered with the 
attention of Burns to his farm. He engaged in 
the formation of a society for purcliasing and cir- 
culating books among the fiu-mers of his neigh- 
bourhood, of which he undertook the manage- 
mentt ; and he occupied himself occasionally in 
composing songs for the musical work of Mr, 
Johnson, then in the course of publication.— 
These engagements, useful and honourable in 
themselves, contributed no doubt to the abstrac- 
tion of his thoughts from the business of agricul- 
ture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and good 
management of Mrs. Burns, and though his rent 
was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it 
convenient, if not necessary, to resign his farm to 
Mr. Miller, after having occupied it three years 
and a half. His office in the excise had originally 
produced about fifty pounds per annum. Having 
acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the board, 
he had been appointed to a new district, the emo- 
luments of which rose to about seventy pounds 
per annum. Hoping to supjiort himself and his 
family on this humble income till promotion 
should reach him, he disposed of his stock and of 
his crop on Ellisland by public auction, and re- 
moved to a small house which he had taken in 
Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in 
social parties, had abstained fi-om the habitual use 
of strong liquors, and his constitution had not 
suffered any permanent injury from the irregula- 
rities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations 
to the sin that so easily beset him, continually pre- 
sented themselves ; and his irregularities grew by 
degrees into habits. These temptations unhappily 
ocoirred during his engagements in the business 
of his office, as well as during his hours of relaxa- 
tion ; and though he clearly foresaw iJie conse- 
quence of yielding to them, his appetites and sen- 
sations, which could not pervert tlie dictates of 
his judgment, finally triumphed over the powers 
of his will; Yet, this victory was not obtained 
without many obstinate struggles, and, at times, 
temperance and virtue seemed to have obtained! 
the mastery. Besides his engagements in the ex- 
cise, and the society into which they led, raany 
circumstances contributed to the melancholy fate 
of Burns. His great celebrity made him an object 
of interest and curiosity to strangers, and few per- 
sons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries 
without attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
tJie pleasure of his conversation. As he could 
not receive them under his own humble roof, 
these interviews passed at the inns of the town, 
and often terminated in those excesses, which 
Burns sometimes provoked, and was seldom able 
to resist. And, among the inhabitants of Dumfries 
and its vicinity, there were never wanting persons 

* Given from the infonnation of one of the 
party. 

t See General Correspondence. No. LXXXVI. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



4.1 



10 share his social pleasures ; to lead or accompa- 
ny him to the tavern ; to partake in the wildest 
sallies of his wit ; to witness the strength and the 
deg:radation of his penius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of per- 
sons of taste and of respectability, and in their 
company could impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. No was his muse 
dormant. In the four years which he lived in 
Dumfries, he produced many of his beautiful ly- 
rics, though it does not appear that he attempted 
any poem of considerable length. During this 
time, he made several excursions into the neigh- 
bouring country, of one of which, through Gallo- 
way, an account is preserved in a letter of Mr. 
Syme, written soon after, which, as it gives an 
animated picture of him by a correct and master- 
ly hand, we shall preseait to the i-eader. 

" I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride 
on. We dined the first day, 27th July, 1793, at 
Glendenwynes of Parton ; a beautiful situation 
on the banks of the Dee. In the evening, we 
walked otit and ascended a gentle eminence, from 
which we had as fine a view^ of Alpine scenery as 
tan well be imagified. A delightful soft evening- 
showed all its wilder as well as its grander graces. 
Immediately opposite, and within a mile of us, we 
saw Airds, a charming romantic place, where 
dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep no more fur 
me*. This was classical ground for Burns. He 
viewed " the highest hill, which rises o'er the 
source of Dee ;" and would have staid till the 
" passing spirit" had appeared, had we not re- 
solved to reach Kenmore that night. We arrived as 
Mr. and Mrs. Gordon wei-e sitting down to supjier. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The castle, 
an old building, stands on a large natural moat. 
In front, the river Ken winds for several miles 
through the most fertile and beautiful ho/mf ; 
till it expands into a lake twelve miles long, the 
banks of wliich on the south present a fine and 
soft landscape of green knolls, natural wood, and 
here and there a grey rock. On the north, the 
aspect is great, w ild, and, I may say, tremendous. 
In short, I can scarcely conceive a scene more 
terribly i-omantic than the castle of Kenmore. 
Burns thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a 
description ©f it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he 
has begun the work. We spent three days with 
Mr. Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an 
original and endearing kind. Mrs. Gordon's lap- 
dog Echo was dead. She would have an epitaph 



* A beautiful and well-known ballad, which 

begins thus : 

The moon had climb'd the highest hill, 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee; 

And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree, 

t The level low-ground on the banks of a river 
or stream. This word sliould be adopted from 
the Scottislj, as, indeed, ought several others of 
the same nature. That dialect is singularly co- 
pious and exact in the denorainalions of natural 
object?. E-. 



for him. Several had been made. Burns was 
asked for one. This was setting Herctiles to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject, but, to please the 
lady, he would try. Here is what he produced. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deploi-e ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse, 
I took him the moor-road, where savage and de- 
solate regions extended wide around. The sky 
was sjmpathetic with the wretchedness of the 
soil ; it became louring and dark. The hollow 
winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder 
rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene— he 
spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. 
In a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
in floods upon us. For three hours did the wild 
elements rumble their belly-full upon our defence- 
less heads. Oh, oh! ^twas foul. We got utterly- 
wet, and, to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at 
Gatehouse, on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse we went next day to Kir- 
kudbright, through a fine country. But here I 
must tell you that Burns had got a }}a.\r of jemnnj 
boots for the join-ney, which had been thoroughly 
wet, and which had been dried in such a manner, 
that it was not possible to get them on again. 
The brawny poet tried force, and tore them to 
shreds. A whiflling vexation of this sort is more 
trying to the temper than a serious calamity. We 
were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of the 
earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was dis- 
comfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A 
sick stomach, and a head-ache, lent their aid, and 
the man of verse was quite accabld. I attempted 
to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he did 
fume and rage ! Nothing could re-instate him in 
temper. I tried various ex2)edients, and at last 
hit on one that succeeded. I showed him the 
house of * * * *, across the bay of Wigton. 
Against ♦ * * *, with whom he was oflended, 
he expectorated his spleen, and regained a most 
agreeable temper. He was in a most epigramma- 
tic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on hum- 
bler game. There is one ****** wHom he 
does not love. He had a passing blow at him. 

When ***** *j deceased, to the devil went 

down, 
'Twas nothing would serve him btit Satan's own 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 

wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever. 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkudbright 
along with our poet without boots. I carried the 
torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his fulmi- 
iiations, and in contempt of appejtranees : and. 



46 



LIFE OF 



what is more, lord Selkirk carried them in his 
coach to Dumfries. He insisted they were worth 
mending. 

" We reached Kirkudbright about one o'clock. 
I had promised that we should dine with one of 
the first men in our cotmtry, J. Dalzell. But 
Burns was in a wild and obstreperous humour, 
and swore he M'ould not dine where he should be 
under the smallest restraint. We prevailed, there- 
fore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine with us in the inn, 
and had a very agreeable party. In the evening 
■we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not 
absolutely regained the milkiness of good temper, 
and it occurred once or twice to him, as he rode 
along, that St. Mary's Isle was the seat of a lord ; 
yet, that lord was not an aristocrat, at least in his 
sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, 
as the family were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's 
Isle is one of the most delightful places that can, 
in my opinion, be formed by the assemblage of 
every soft, but not tame object, which constitutes 
natural and cultivated beauty. But not to dwell 
on its external graces, let me tell you that we 
found all the ladies of the family (all beautiful) 
at home, and some strangers ; and among others, 
V'ho but Urbani. The Italian sung us many 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instrumental 
music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung 
also. We had the song of Lord Gregory, which I 
asked for, to have an opportunity of calling on 
Burns to recite ?iis ballad to that tune. He did 
recite it ; and such was the effect, that a dead si- 
lence ensued. It was such a silence as a mind of 
feeling naturally preserves when it is touched 
with that enthusiasm which banishes every other 
thought but the contemplation and indulgence of 
the sjTnpathy produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, 
in my opinion, a most beautiful and affecting 
ballad*. The fastidious critic may, perhaps, say 
some of the sentiments and imagery are of too 
elevated a kind for such a style of composition ; 
for instance, " Thou bolt of heaven that passest 
by ;" and " Ye mustering thunders," &c., but 
this is a cold-blooded objection, which will be said 
rather than felt. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at lord 
Selkirk's. We had in every sense of the word a 
feast, in which our minds and our senses were 
equally gratified. The poet was delighted with 
his company, and acquitted himself to admiration. 
The lion that had raged so violently in the morn- 
ing, was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. Next 
day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our 
peregrination. I told you that in the midst of 
the storm on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was 
rapt in meditation. What do you think he was 
about ? He was charging the English army along 
with Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged 
in the same manner on our ride home from St. 
Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day 
he produced me the following address of Bruce to 
his troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell. 

" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c.t 

* See Correspondence with Mr, Thomson, No. 
XIL 

t Ibid. No. XLIIT. 



Buras had entertained hopes «f promotion in 
the excise ; but circumstances occurred which re- 
tarded their fulfilment, and vhich in his own 
mind destroyed all expectation of their being ever 
fulfilled. The extraordinary events which usher- 
ed in the revolution of France, interested the 
feelings, and excited the hopes of men in every 
corner of Europe. Prejudice and tji-anny seemed 
about to disappear from among men, and the day- 
star of reason to rise upon a benighted world. In 
the dawn of tliis beautiful morning the genius of 
French freedom appeared on our southern hori- 
zon with the countenance of an angel, but spee- 
dily assumed the features of a demon, and vanish- 
ed in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier. 
Burns had shared in the original hopes entertain- 
ed of this astonishing revolution by ardent and 
benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard 
of the attempt meditated by the First or Consti- 
tuent Assembly, served rather, it is probable, to 
recommend it to his daring temper ; and the un- 
fettered scope proposed to be given to eveiy kind 
of talents, was doubtless gratifying to the feelings 
of conscious but indignant genius. Bums foresaw 
not the mighty ruin that was to be the immediate 
consequence of an enterprize, which, on its com- 
mencement, promised so much happiness to the 
human race. And even after the career of guilt 
and of blood commenced, he could not immedi- 
ately, it may be presumed, withdraw his partial 
gaze from a people who had so lately breathed 
the sentiments of universal peace and benignity, 
or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope 
and of happiness to which those sentiments had 
given birth. Under these impi-essions, he did not 
always conduct himself with the circumspection 
and prudence which his dependent situation 
seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, in no 
popular associations, so common at the time of 
which we speak; but, in company, he did not 
conceal his opinions of public measures, or of the 
reforms required in the practice of our govern- 
ment : and sometimes, in his social and unguard- 
ed moments, he uttered them with a wild and un- 
justifiable vehemence. Information of this was 
given to the board of excise, with the exaggerations 
so general in such cases. A superior officer in. 
that department was authorized to inquire into 
his conduct. Burns defended himself in a letter 
addressed to one of the board, written with great 
independence of spirit, and with more than his ac- 
customed eloquence. The officer appointed to in- 
quire into his conduct, gave a favourable report. 
His steady friend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, inter- 
posed his good offices in his behalf; and the im- 
prudent ganger was suffered to retain his situa- 
tioji, but given to understand that his promo^ 
tion was deferred, and must depend on his future 
behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression on 
the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his mis- 
conduct, and represented him as actually dismiss^ 
ed from his office. And this report induced a 
gentleman of much respectability to propose a 
subscription in his favour. The ofier was refused 
by our poet in a letter of great elevation of sen- 
tinreut, in which he gives au account of the whore 



ROBERT BURNS. 



47 



of this transaction, and defends himself from the 
imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one 
hand, and, on the other, from the charge of having 
made submissions, for the sake of his office, un- 
worthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of ge- 
nius, and has given me a character to support. In 
the poet I have avowed manly and independent 
sentiments, which I hope have been found in the 
man. Reasons of no less weight than the support 
of a wife and children, have pointed out my pre- 
sent occupation, as the only eligible line of life 
within my reach. Still my honest fame is my 
dearest concern, and a thousand times have I 
trembled at the idea of the degrading epithets 
that malice or )nisrepresentation may affix to my 
name. Often in blasting anticipation have I lis- 
tened to some future hackney scribbler, with the 
heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingiy as- 
serting that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaro- 
nade of independence to be found in his works, 
and after having been held up to public view, 
and to public estimation, as a man of some ge- 
nius, yet, quite destitute of resources within him- 
self to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled 
into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of 
his insignificant existence in the meanest of pur- 
suits, and amongst the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to 
lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of such 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man 
from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity : 
but— I -will say it! the sterling of his honest 
worth poverty could not debase, and his indepen- 
dent British spirit, oppression might bend, but 
could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts, accompa- 
nied by some additional remarks on the same sub- 
ject. It is not surprising, that, at a season of uni- 
versal alarm for the safety of the constitution, the 
indiscreet expressions of a man so powerful as 
Burns, should have attracted notice. The times 
certainly i-equired extraordinary vigilance in those 
entrusted with the administration of the govern- 
ment, and to ensure the safety of the constitution 
was doubtless their first duty. Yet, generous minds 
will lament that their measures of precaution 
should have robbed the imagination of our poet 
of the last prop on which his hopes of indepen- 
dence rested, and, by embittering his peace, liave 
aggravated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns' temper, in- 
creased as it often was by stimulating liquors, 
might lead him into many improper and unguard- 
ed expressions, there seems no reason to doubt of 
his attachment to our mixed form of government. 
In his coimnon-place book, where he could have 
no temptation to disguise, are the following sen- 
timents.—" Whatever might be my sentiments of 
republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever 
abjured the idea. A constitution, which, in its 
original principles, experience has proved to be 
every way fitted for our happiness, it would be 
insanity to abandon for an untried visiouarj- the- 



ory." In conformity to these sentiments, wlien 
the pressing nature of public affairs called, in 
1795, for u general arming of the people, Buriis 
appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries volun- 
teers, and employed his poetical talents in stimu- 
lating their patriotism* ; and at this season of 
alarm, he brought forward the following hymn, 
worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece was 
most conspicuous for genius and valour. 

Scene— afield of battle— tiyne of the day, evening — 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army 
are supposed to join in the follotuing song. 

Farewell, tJiou fiiir day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting iun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties, 
Oar race of existence is run ! 

Thou glim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant 1 but know. 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark 1 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our-- 
hands. 

Our king and our country to save— 
"While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands. 

Oh ! who would not rest with the bra vet I 

Though by nature of an athletic form. Burnt 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and the 
delicacies that belong to the temperament of ge- 
nius. He was liable, from a very early period of 
life, to that interruption in the process of diges- 
tion, which arises from deep and anxious thought, 
and which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes 
the cause of depression of spirits. Connected 
with this disorder of the stomach, there was a dis- 
position lo head-ache, affecting more especially 
the temples and eye-balls, and frequently accom- 
panied by violent and irregular movements of the 

* See Poems. 

t This poem was written in 1791. See General 
Correspondejtce, No. CXXV. It Avas printed in 
Johnson''s Musical Museujn. The poet had an 
intention, in the latter part of his life, of printing 
it separately, set to music, but was advised against 
it ; or at least discouraged from it. The martial 
ardour which rose so high afterwards, on the 
threatened invasion, had not then acquired the 
tone necessary to give popularity to this noble 
poem ; which, to the editor, seems more calcula- 
ted to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season 
of real and pressing danger, tlian any production 
of modern times. It is here printed with his last 
corrections, varied a little from the copy followed 
in the poems. 



LIFE OF 



heart. Endowed by nature v/itb great sensibility 
of nerves, Burns Mas, in his corporeal, as well as 
in his mental system, liable to inordinate impres- 
sions ; to fever of body, as well as of mind. This 
predisposition to disease, which strict temperance 
in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep, might 
have subdued, habits of a very different nature 
strengthened and inflamed. Perpetually stimula- 
ted by alkohol in one or other of its various 
forms, the inordinate actions of iJie circulating 
system became at length habitual ; the process of 
nutrition was unable to supply the waste, and the 
powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a year 
before his death, there was an evident decline in 
our poet's personal appearance, and thougli his 
appetite continued unimpaired, he was Jiinise-lf 
sensible that his constitution was sinking. In his 
moments of thought, he i-eflected with the deepest 
regi-et on his fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the 
goal towards which he was hastening, without the 
strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to 
slacken his course. His temper now became more 
irritable and gloomy; he tied from himself into 
society, often of the lowest kind. And in such 
company that part of the convivial scene, in wliich 
vine increases sensibility and excites benevolence, 
>vas hurried over, te reach the succeeding part, 
over which uncontrouled passion generally pre- 
sided. He who sufters the pollution of inebria- 
tion, how shall he escape other pollution? But 
let us refrain from tJie mention of errors over 
which delicacy and liumanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met 
nothing in his domestic circle but gentleness and 
forgiveness, except in the gnawings of liis own re- 
morse. He acknowledged his transgi'essions to 
the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and 
again and again received pardon for his offences. 
But, as the strength of his body decayed, his reso- 
lution became feebler, and habit acquired predo- 
minating strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January following, 
an accidental complaint confined him to the 
house. A few days after he began to go abroad, 
he dined at a tavern, and returned home about 
three o'clock in a verj' cold morning, benumbed 
and intoxicated. This was followed by an attack 
of rheumatism, which confined him about a week. 
His appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, 
and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. 
His pulse became weaker and more rapid, and 
pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and 
feet, deprived liim of the enjoyment of refreshing 
sleep. Too much dejected in liis spirits, and too 
Avell aware of his real situation to entertain hopes 
of recovei*}', he was ever musing on the approach- 
ing desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk 
into an uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he 
could live through the months of spring, the suc- 
ceeding season might restore him. But they were 
disappointed. The genial beams of the sun in- 
fused no vigour into his languid frame ; tlie sum- 
mer wind blew upon him, but produced no re- 
freshment. About the latter end of June he was 
advised to go into the countiy, and, impatient of 
medical advice, as well as of every species of cou- 



troul, he determined foi: Jiimself to try the effects 
of bathing in the sea. For this purpose he took 
up his residence at Brow, in Annandale, about 
ten miles east of Dumfries, on the shore of the 
Solway-Fiith. 

It happened that, at that time, a lady with 
M jioni he had been connected in friendship by the 
sympathies of kindred genius, was residing in the 
inunediate neighbourhood*. Being informed of 
liis arrival, she invited him to diiuier, and sent her 
carriage for him to the cottage where he lodged, 
as he was unable to walk.—" I was struck," says 
this lady (in a confidential letter to a friend, writ- 
ten soon after), " witli liis appearance on enter- 
ing the room. The stami> of death was impressed 
on liis features. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, 
madam, have you any commands for the other 
world ?' I replied, that it seemed a doubtful case 
wlxich of us should be there soonest, and that I 
hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. 
(I was then in a bad state of liealth). He looked 
in my face with an air of great kindness, and ex- 
pressed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with 
his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little 
or nothing, and he complained of having entirely 
lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and 
sei-ious conversation about his present situation, 
and the approaching termination of all his earthly 
prospects. He spoke of his death without any of 
the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness 
as well as feeling— as an event likely to happen 
very soon, ajid which gave him concei-n cliiefly 
from leaving his four children so young and un- 
pi'otected, and his wife in so interesting a situa- 
tion — in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. 
He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfac- 
tion, the promising genius of his eldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had re- 
ceived from his teachers, and dwelt particularly 
on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and me- 
rit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang 
heavy upon him, and the more, perhaps, from the 
reflection that he had r.ot done them all the jus- 
tice he was so well qualified to do. Passing from 
this subject, he sho\>ed gixat concern about the 
cai-e of his literary fame, aj.d particularly the pub- 
lication of his posthumous works. He said he 
was well aware that his death would occasion 
some noise, and that eA-ery scrap of his writing 
would be revived against him to the injury of his 
future reputation : that letters and verses written 
with unguarded and improper freedom, and which 
he earnestly wished to have buried in oblirion, 
would be handed about by idle vanity or malevo- 
lence, when no dread of his resentment would 
restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, 
from pouring forth all their venom to blast his 
I'ame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epi- 
grams on persons against whom he entertained 
no enmity, and whose cliaracters lie should be 
sorry to w ouiid ; and many indifil-rent poetical 



* For a character of this lady, see General Cor 
respondence. No. C XXVII, 



KOBERT BURNS. 



49 



pieces which he feared would now, with all their 
imperfections on their head, be tln-ust upon the 
World. On this account he deeply regretted Iiaving^ 
deferred to put his papers into a state of aiTange- 
nient, as he was now quite incapable of the exer- 
tion." — The lady goes on to mention many other 
topics of a private nature, on which he spoke.— 
" The conversation," she adds, " was kept up 
with gi-eat evenness and animation on his side. I 
had seldom seen his mind greater or more collect- 
ed. There was frequently a considerable degree 
of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably 
have had a greater share, had not the concern 
and dejection I could not disguise, damped the 
spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to 
indulge. 

" We parted about sun-set on the evening of 
that day (the 5th of July, 1796) ; the next day I 
saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !" 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the sea had 
been of benefit to him: the pains in his limbs 
were relieved ; but tills was immediately follow ed 
hy a new attack of fever. When bi'ought back 
to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, 
he was no longer able to stand upright. At this 
time a treraour pervaded his frame ; his tongue 
•was parched, and his mind sunk into delirium, 
when not roused by conversation. On the second 
and third day the fever increased, and his strength 
diminished. On the fourth, the sufferings of this 
great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, and 
a life was closetl in which virtue and passion had 
been at perpetual variance*. 

I'he death of Bums made a strong and general 
impression on all who had interested themselves 
in his character, and especially on the inhabitants 
ef the town and country in which he had spent 
the latter years of his life. Flagrant as his follies 
and errors had been, tliey had not deprived him of 
the respect and regard entertained for the extra- 
ordinary powers of his genius, and the generous 
qualities of his heart. The Gentlemen Volunteers 
of Dumfries determined to bury their illustrious 
associate with military honours, and every prepa- 
ration was made to render this last service solemn 
and impressive. The Fencible Infanti-y of Angus- 
shire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque 
Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered 
their assistance on this occasion ; the principal in- 
habitants of the town and neighbourhood deter- 
mined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a 
vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them 
from a considerable distance, to witness the obse- 
quies of the Scottish bard. On the evening of the 
25th of July, the remains of Bums were removed 
from his house to the Town-Hall, and the funeral 
took place on the succeeding day. A party of the 
volunteers selected to perform the military duty 
in the church-yard, stationed themselves in the 
front of the procession, with their arms reversed ; 
the main body of the corps suiTounded and sup- 
ported the coffin, on which were placed the hat 
and sword of their friend and fellow-soldier ; the 



• The particulars respecting the illness and 
death of Bums, were obligingly furnished by Dr. 
Maxwell, the physician who attended him. 



numerous body of attendants ranged themselves iu 
the rear ; while the fencible regiments of infan- 
try and cavalry lined the streets from the Town- 
Hall to the burial-ground in the Southern church- 
yard, a distance of more than half a mile. Tlie 
whole procession moved forward to that sublime 
and affecting strain of music, the Dead March in 
Saul ; and three vollies fired over his grave, mark- 
ed the return of Bums to his parent earth ! The 
spectacle was, in a high degree, grand and so- 
lemn, and accorded with the general sentiments 
of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, tliat, on the 
morning of the day of her husband's funeral, Mrs. 
Bums Avas undergoing the pains of labour, and 
that during the soleinn service we have just been 
describing, the posthumous son of our poet was 
born. This infant boy, who received the name of 
Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. He has 
already become an inhabitant of the same grave 
with his celebrated fiither. The four other chil- 
dren of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time 
about ten years of age), yet survive, and give 
evei*y promise of prudence and virtue that can be 
expected from th^ir tender years. They remain 
under the care of their affectionate mother in 
Dumfries, and are enjoyii.g the means of educa- 
tion which the excellent schools of that town af- 
ford ; the teachers of which, in their conduct to 
the children of Burns, do themselves great ho- 
nour. On this occasion, the name of Mr. Whyte 
deserves to be particularly mentioned, himself a 
poet as well as a man of science*. 

Burns died in great poverty, but the indepen- 
dence of his spirit, and the exemplary prudence 
of his wife, had preserved him from debt. He 
had received from his poems a clear profit of 
about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum, the 
part expended on his librai^ (which was far from 
extensive) and in the humble furniture of his 
house, remained ; and obligations m ere found for 
two hundred pounds advanced by him for the as- 
sistance of those to whom he was united by the 
ties of blood, and still more by those of esteem 
and affection. When it is considered that his ex- 
penses in Edinburgh, and on his various journeys, 
could not be inconsiderable ; that his agricultural 
undertaking was unsuccessful ; that his income 
from the excise was for some time as low as fifty, 
and never rose to above seventy pounds a year; 
that his family was large, and his spirit liberal — 
no one will be surprised that his cii-eumstances 
were so poor, or that, as Ids health decayed, liis 
proud and feeling heart sunk under the secret 
consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions 
of absolute want. Yet, poverty never bent the 
spirit of Burns to any pecuniary meaniiess. Nei- 
ther chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in his 
conduct. He carried liis disregard oi' luoney to a 
blanuable excess. Even in the midst of distress 
he bore himself loftily to the world, and received 
with a jealous reluctance every offer of friecdly 
assistance. His pi-inted poems had procured him 

* Author of St. Guerdoii's IVell, a poem, and of 
A Tribute to the Memory of Burns. 
G 



00 



LIFE Oi 



great celebrity, and a just nnd fair recompense 
for the latter offsprings of his pen, miglit have 
produced him considerable emolument. In the 
year 1795, the editor of a London newspaper, 
high in its character for literature and iridepen- 
dence of sentiment, made a proposal to him, that 
he should funush them once a week with an arti- 
cle for their poetical department, and i-eceive from 
them a recompense of fifty-two guineas per an- 
num ; an offer which the pride of genius disdain- 
ed to accept. Yet, he had for several years fur- 
nished, and was at that time furnishing, the Mu- 
seum of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without 
fee or rew ard, and was obstinately refusing all re- 
compenst for his assistance to the greater w ork of 
Mr. Ihomson, which the justice and generosity of 
that gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approach- 
ing distress of his infant family, pressed heavily 
on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. Yet, he 
alluded to his indigence, at times, with something 
approacliing to his wonted gaiety.—" What busi- 
ness," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him 
vith the utmost zeal, " has a physician to waste 
his time on me ? I am a poor pidgeon not w orth 
plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers enough upon 
jne to carry me to my grave." And when his 
reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the 
same melancholy train; the horrors of a jail were 
continually present to his troubled imagination, 
and pi-oduced the most affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death he 
had been incapable of the duties of his office, 
Bums dreaded that his salarj- should be reduced 
one half, as is usual in such cases. His full emo- 
luments were, however, continued to him by the 
kindness of Mr. Stobbie, a young expectant in the 
excise, who performed tlie duties of his office 
without fee or reward* ; and Mr. Graham of Fin- 
try, hearing of his illness, though unacquainted 
vith its dangerous nature, made an offer of his 
assistance towards procuring him the means of 
preserWng his health.— Whatever might be the 
faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the num- 
hei". Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are 
found of the sense he entertained of Mr. Gi*a- 
ham's fiiendship, which delicacy towards that gen- 
tleman has induced us to suppress ; and, on this 
last occasion, there is no doubt that his heart 
overflowed towards him, though he had no longer 
the power of expressing his feelings t. 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dum- 
fries and its neighbourhood, opened a subscription 
for the support of his wife and family, and Mr. 
Miller, Mr. M'lSIurdo, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, 
and Mr. Cunningham, gentlemen of the first 
respectability, became trustees fur the ajjplication 

* In the first edition it is supposed, that the 
board of excise deviated from their usual nile (a 
shocking rule it is !) in our poet's favour. It ap- 
pears, on better information, that the members of 
that board were not guilty of any such weakness. 

+ 1 he letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to above, 
is dated on the 13tl) of July, and probably arrived 
on tilt 15th. Bums became delirious on the I7th 
or 18th, and died on the 2lit. 



of the money to its proper objects. l"he sub- 
scription was extended to other parts of Scotland, 
and of England also, particularly London and Li- 
verpool. By this means a sum was raised amount- 
ing to seven hundred pounds, and thus the widow 
and children were rescued from inunediate dis- 
tress, and the most melancholy of the forebodings 
of Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this 
sum, though equal to their present support, is in- 
sufficient to secure them from future penury. 
Tlieir hope, in regard to futurity, depends on the 
favourable reception of these volumes from the 
public at large, in the promoting of wliich, the 
candour and humanity of the reader may induce 
him to knd his assistance. 

Bui-ns, as has already been mentioned, was near- 
ly five feet ten inches in heiglit, and of a form 
that indicated agility as well as strength. His 
well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling 
hail-, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were 
large, dark, full of ardour and intelligence. His 
face was well formed ; and his countenance un- 
commonly interesting and expressive. His mode 
of dressing, which was often slovenly, and a cer- 
tain fulness and bend in his shoulders, characte- 
ristic of his original profession, disguised in some 
degree the natural symmetry and elegance of his 
form. The external appearance of Burns was 
most strikingly indicative of the character of his 
mind. On a first view, his physiognomy had a 
certain air of coarseness, mingled, however, with 
an expression of deep penetration, and of calm 
thoughtfulness approaching to melancholy. Thei'e 
appeared in his first manner and address perfect 
ease and self-possession, but a stern and almost 
supercilious elevation, not indeed incompatible 
with openness and affability, which, however, be- 
spoke a mind conscious of superior talents. Stran- 
gers that supposed themselves apju-oaching an 
AjTshire peasant, who could Uiake rhymes, aiid 
to whom their notice was an honour, found them- 
selves spec^dily overaw ed by the presence of a man 
who bore himself with dignity, and wlio possessed 
a sii.gular power of correcting foj,'wardness and of 
repelhng intrusion. But, though jealous of the 
respect due to himself. Bums never enforced it 
w here ht saw it was willingly paid ; and though 
inaccessible to the approach* s of pride, he was 
open to every advance of kindness and of benevo- 
lence. His dark and haughty countenance easily 
relaxed into a look of good will, of pity, or of 
tenderness ; and as the various emotions succeed- 
ed each other in his mind, assumed with equal 
ease the expression of the broadest humour, of 
the most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melan- 
choly, or of the most sublime emotion. The tones 
of his voice happily corresponded with the expres- 
sion of his features, and with the feelings of his 
muid. When to these endowments are added, a 
rapid and distinct ajiprehension, a most powerful 
understanding, and a ha2)py command of language 
— of strength as well as brilliancy of expression— 
we shall be able to account for the extraordinary 
atlractions of his conversation— for the sorcery 
w hich, in his social parties, he seemed to exert on 
all around him. In the company of women, this 
sorcery >yas niore esp<;cially apparent. Their pw- 



ROBERT BUR^\S. 



5.1 



scnee diarmeil the fiend of melancholy in his bo- 
som, and auolve liis Iiappiest fc elings ; it excited 
the powers of his fancy, as Mell as the tenderness 
of his heart; and, by restraining- the vehemence 
and the exuberance of his languag^e, at times gave 
to his manners the impression of taste, and even 
of elegance, which, in the company of men, they 
seldom possessed. This influejiee was doubtless 
reciprocal. A Scottish lady, accustomed to the 
best society, declared, with characteristic naivet^, 
that no man's conversation ever carried her so 
conifiletehj off her feet as that of Burns ; and an 
English lady, familiarly acqiiainted with several 
of the most distinguished characters of the pre- 
sent times, assured the editor, that, in the hap- 
piest of his social hours, there was a charm about 
Bums which she had never seen equalled. This 
charm arose not more from the power, than the 
versatility of his genius. No languor could be 
felt in the society of a man who passed at plea- 
sure from grave to gay, from the ludicrous to 
the pathetic, from the simple to the sublime ; 
who wielded all his faculties with equal strength 
and ease, and nevtr failed to impress the off- 
spring of his fancy with the stamp of his under- 
stand in. g. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his hap- 
piest phasis. In large and mixed parties he was 
often silent and dark, sometimes fierce and over- 
bearing ; he was jealous of the proud man's 
scorn, jealous to an extreme of the insolence of 
wealth, and prone to avenge, eveji on its innocent 
possessor, the partiality of fortune. By nature 
kind, brave, sincere, and, in a sing-ular degree, 
compassionate, he was, on the other hand, proud, 
irascible, and vindictive. His virtues and his 
failings had their origin in the extraordinary sen- 
sibility of his mind, and equally i)artook of the 
chills and glows of sentiment. His friendsliips 
were liable to interruption from jealousy or dis- 
gust, and his enmities died aw ay under the influ- 
ence of pity or self-accusation. His understanding 
was equal to the other powers of his mind, and 
his deliberate opinions were singularly candid and 
just; but, like other men of great and irregular 
genius, the opinions which he delivered in con- 
versation were often the offspring of temporary 
feelings, and widely different from the calm deci- 
sions of his judgment. TJtis was not merely true 
respecting the characters of others, but in regard 
to some of the most important points of human 
speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. He 
knew his own failings ; he predicted their conse- 
quence ; the melancholy foreboding was never 
long absent from his mind ; yet his passions car- 
ried him down the stream of error, and swept 
him over the precipice he saw directly in his 
course. The fatal defect in his character lay in 
the comparative weakness of his volition, that 
superior faculty of the mind, which, govei-ning 
tilt conduct according to the dictates of the un- 
derstanding, alone entitles it to be denomii-ated 
rational ; which is the parent of fortitude, pa- 
?ie)He. and self-denial ; which, by regulating and 



combining hnman exertions, may be said to have 
effected all that is great in the works of man, in 
literature, in science, or on the face of nature. 
The occupations of a poet are not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the mind, or 
to weaken that sensibility which requires perpe- 
tual controul, since it gives birth to the vehe- 
mence of passion, as well as to the higher powers 
of imagination. Unfortunately the favourite oc- 
cupations of genius are calculated to increase all 
its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride which 
disdains tlie littleness of prudence, and the re- 
strictions of order; and, by indulgence, to increase 
that sensibility, which, in the present form of our 
existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or 
happiness, even when accomi)anied with the 
choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns*, and who has contemplated 
and explained the system of animated nature, that 
no sentient being, with me)ital powers greatly su- 
perior to those of men, could possibly live and be 
happy in this world.—" If such a being really ex- 
isted," continues he, " his misery would be ex- 
treme. With senses more delicate and refined ; 
with perceptions more acute and penetrating; 
with a taste so exquisite, that the objects around 
him would by no means gratify it ; obliged tQ 
feed on nourishment too gross for his frame ; he 
must be born oiily to be miserable, and the con- 
tinuation of his existence would be utterly im- 
possible. Even in our present condition, the 
sameness and the insipidity of objects and pur- 
suits, the futility of pleasure, and the infinite 
sources of excruciating pain, are supported with 
great difficulty by cultivated and refined minds. 
Increase our sensibilities, continue the same ob- 
jects and situation, and no man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears that our powers of sensation, 
as well as all our other powers, are adapted to the 
scene of our existence ; that they are limited iu 
mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to be 
considered as the dreams of a theorist ; they were 
probably founded on sad experience. The being he 
supposes, " with senses more delicate and refined, 
with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is 
to be found in real life. He is of the temperament, 
of genius, and perhaps a poet. Is there then no 
remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? Are there 
no means by which the happiness of one so con- 
stituted by nature may be consulted? Perhaps it 
will be found, that regular and constant occupa- 
tion, irksome though it may at first be, is the true 
remedy. Occupation in which the pow ers of th» 
understanding are exercised, wnll diminish the 
force of external impressions, and keep the una- 
gination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be 
followed in his education and in his destination in 
life, is a maxim which has been often repeated, 
but which cannot be admitted without many re- 
strictions. It may be generally true when appli- 
ed to weak minds, which, being capable of little, 

* Smellie— See his thUosophy of Ndtnral His: 
fery, vol. i. p. 526. 



52 



LIFE OF 



must be encouraged and strengthened in the fee- 
ble impulses by wliich that little is produced. 
But where indulgent nature has bestowed lier 
eifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse of this 
maxim ought frequently to be the rule of con- 
duct. In minds of a higher order, the object of 
instruction and of discipline is vei'y often to re- 
strain rather than to impel ; to curb the impulses 
of imagination, so that the passions also may be 
kept under controul*. Hence the advantages, 
even in a moral point of view, of studies of a 
severer nature, which, while they inform the un- 
derstanding, employ the volition, that regulating 
power of the mind, which, like all our other fa- 
culties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and ho- 
nourable fame, are wholly dependent. Hence, 
also, the advantage of regular and constant appli- 
cation, which aids the voluntary power by the pi-o- 
duction of habits, so necessary to the support of 
order and virtue, and so difficult to be formed in 
the temperament of genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regulated, 
may pursue his course with confidence in almost 
any of the various walks of life, which choice or 
accident shall open to him ; and, provided he em- 
ploys the talents he has cultivated, may hope for 
such ijnperfect happiness, and such limited suc- 
cess, as are reasonably to be expected fi-om hu- 
man exertions. 

The pi-e-eminence among men, which procures 
personal respect, and which terminates in lasting 
reputation, is seldom or never obtained by the ex- 
cellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience 
teaches us that it has been acquired by those enly, 
who have possessed the comprehension and the 
energy of general talents, and who have regula- 
ted their application, in the line which choice or 
perhaps accident may have detennined, by the 
dictates of their judgment. Imagination is sup- 
posed, and with justice, to be the leading faculty 
of the poet. But what poet has stood the test of 
time by the force of this single faculty ? Who 
does not see that Homer and Shakespeare excelled 
the rest of their species in understanding as well 
as in imagination ; that they were pre-eminent in 
the highest species of knowledge— the knowledge 
of the nature and character of man ? On the 
other hand, the talent of ratiocination is more 

* Quinctilian discusses the important question, 
whether the bent of the individual's genius should 
be followed in his education (an secundum sui 
quisque ingenii docendus sit naturamj, chiefly, 
indeed, with a reference to the orator, but in a 
way that admits of very general application. His 
conclusions coincide very much with those of the 
text. An vera Isocrates cum de Ephvro atque 
Theompompo sic judicaret, tit alteri frenis, alteri 
calcaribus opus esse diceret ; avt in illo lentiore 
tarditatem, aut in illo pene prcccipiti concitationem 
adjuvandum docendo existimavit? cum alter um 
altcrius natura miscendum. arbitraretur. Imbe- 
cillis tamen ingeniis sane sic obsequeitdum sit, ut 
tantum in id quo vocat natura, ducantur. Ita 
enim, quod solum posfant, melius efficient. 

Instit. Orator, lib. ii. 9. 



especially requisite to the orator; but no man 
ever obtained the palm of oratorj', even by the 
highest excellence in this single talent. Who 
does not perceive that Demosthenes and Cicero 
were not more happy in their addresses to the 
reason, than in their appeals to the passions ? 
They knew that to excite, to agitate, and to de- 
light, are among the most potent arts of persua- 
sion ; and they enforced their impression on the 
understanding, by their command of all the sym- 
pathies of the heart. These observations might 
be extended to other wallis of life. He who has 
the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has the fa- 
culties which, duly governed and differently di- 
rected, might lead to pre-eminence in otlier, and, 
as far as respects himself, perhaps in happier des- 
tinations. The talents necessary to the construc- 
tion of an Iliad, under diffei-ent discipline and 
application, might have led armies to victory, or 
kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded the 
thunder of eloquence, or discovered and enlarged 
the sciences that constitute the power, and im- 
prove the condition of our species*. Such talents 

* The reader must not suppose it is contended, 
that the same individual could have excelled in all 
these directions. A certain degree of instruction 
and practice is necessary to excellence in every 
one, and life is too short to admit of one man, 
however gi'eat his talents, acquiring this, in all 
of them. It is only asserted, that the same ta- 
lents, difl^ei-ently applied, might have succeeded in 
any one, though jjerhaps not equally well in each. 
And, after all, this position requires certain limi- 
tations, which the reader's candour and judgment 
will supply. In supposing that a great poet might 
have made a g^-eat orator, the physical qualities 
necessary to oratory are pre-supposed. In sup- 
posing that a great orator might have made a 
gi'eat poet, it is a necessary condition that he 
should have devoted himstlf to poetry, and that 
he should have acquired a proficiency in metrical 
numbers, which by patience and attention may be 
acquired, though the want of it has embarrassed 
and chilled many of the first efforts of true poe- 
tical genius. In supposing that Homer might 
have led armies to victory, more indeed is assumed 
than the physical qualities of a general. To these 
must be added that hardihood of mind, that cool- 
ness in the midst of difficulty and danger, which 
great poets and orators are found sometimes, but 
not always, to possess. The nature of the insti- 
tutions of Greece and Rome, produced more in- 
stances of single individuals who excelled in vari- 
ous departments of active and speculative life, 
than occur in modern Europe, where the employ- 
ments of men ai-e more subdivided. Many of the 
greatest warriors of antiquity excelled in litera- 
ture and in oratory. Tliat they had the minds 
of great poets also, will be admitted, when the 
qualities are justly appreciated which are neces- 
sary to excite, combine, and command the active 
energies of a great body of men, to rouse that en- 
thusiasm which sustains fatigue, hunger, and the 
inclemencies of the elements, and which triumphs 
over the fear of death, the most powerful instinct 
of our nature. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



53 



are, indeed, rare among the productions of nature, 
and occasions of bringing them into full exertion 
are rarer still. But safe and salutary occupations 
may be found for men of genius in every direc- 
tion, while the useful and ornamental arts remain 
to be cultivated, while the sciences remain to be 
studied and to be extended, and the principles of 
science to be applied to the correction and im- 
provement of art. In the temperament of sensi- 
bility, which is, in truth, the temperament of ge- 
neral talents, the principal object of discipline 
and instruction, is, as has already been mentioned, 
to strengthen the self-command ; and this may be 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in 
favour of the close connexion between the poet 
and the orator. Est enimjiiiitiinus oratori pacta, 
numcris adstrictior paiilu, verborum autem lice/i- 
tia liberior, &c.— De Orator. Lib. i. c. 16. See 
also lib. iii. c 7.— It is true, the example of Cicero 
may be quoted against his opinion. His attempts 
in verse, which are praised by Plutarch, do not 
seem to have met the approbation of Juvenal, or 
of some others. Cicero probably did not take suf- 
ficient time to learn the ait of the poet ; but that 
be had the afflatus necessary to poetical excel- 
lence, may be abundantly proved from his compo- 
sitions in prose. On the other hand, nothing is 
more clear, than that in the character of a gre.it 
poet, all the mental qualities of an orator are in- 
cluded. It is said by Quinctilian, of Homer, Om- 
nibus eloqnenticr partibus f.vcnpUmi et ortum de- 
dit, lib. i. 47. The study of Homer is, therefore, 
recommended to the orator as of the first impor- 
tance. Of the two sublime poets in our own lan- 
guage, who are hardly inferior to Homer, Shakes- 
peare and Milton, a similar recommendation may 
be given. It is scarcely necessary to mention 
how much an acquaintance with them has avail- 
ed the great orator, who is now the pride and or- 
nament of the English bar, a character that may 
be appealed to with singular propriety, when we 
are contending for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of 
the talents necessary to excellence in poetry, ora- 
tory, painting, and war, will be admitted by some, 
who will be inclined to dispute the extension of 
the position to science or natural knowledge. On 
this occasion I may quote the following observa- 
tions of sir William Jones, whose own example 
vdll, however, far exceed in weight the authority 
of his precepts. " Abul Ola had so flourishing a 
reputation, that several persons of uncommon ge- 
nius were ambitious of learning the art of poetry 
from so able an ijistructor. His most illustrious 
scholars were Fek-ki and Rhakani, who were no 
less eminent for their Persian compositions, than 
for their skill in every branch of pure ar.d mixed 
mathematics, and particularly in astronomy ; a 
striking proof that a sublime poet may become 
master of any kind of learning which he chooses 
to profess ; since a fine imagination, a lively wit, 
an easy and copious style, cannot possibly obstruct 
the acquisition of any science whatever ; but must 
nec^-ssarily assist him in his studies, and shorten 
his labour." 

Sir fVilliam Jones''s Works, vol. i'up, 317. 



promoted by the direction of the studies, moi-e 
effectually perhaps than has been generally un- 
derstood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, they 
may lead to practical consequences of some im- 
portance. It has been too much the custom to con- 
sider the possession of poetical uilents i?^ excluding 
the possibility of application to the severer branches 
of study, and as in some degree incapacitating the 
possessor from attaining those habits, and from be- 
stowing that attention, which ai-e necessary to suc- 
cess in the details of business, and in the engage- 
ments of active life. It has been common for per- 
sons conscious of such taK^nts, to look with a sort 
of disdain on other kinds of intellectual excellence, 
and to consider themselves as in some degree ab- 
solved from those rules of prudence by which hum- 
bler minds are restricted. They are too much dis- 
posed to abandon themselves to their own sensa- 
tions, and to sufter life to pass away without regu- 
lar exertion or settled jiurpose. 

But though men of genius are generally prone 
to indolence, with them indolence and unhappiness 
are in a more especial manner allied. The unbid- 
den splendors of imagination may indeed at times 
irradiate the gloona which inactivity produces ; but 
such visions, though bright, are transient, and serve 
to cast the realities o^ life into deei)er shade. In 
bestowing great talents, nature seems very gene- 
rally to have imposed on the possessor tlie neces- 
sity of exertion, if he would escajje wretchedness. 
Better for him than sloth, toils the most painful, 
or adventures the most hazardous. Happier to him 
than idleness, Mere the condition of the peasant, 
earning with incessant labour his scanty food ; or 
that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard-arm, 
and wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrated 
by the biography of men of genius of every de- 
nomination, and more especially by the biography 
of the poets. Of this last description of men, few 
seem to have enjoyed the usual poitiun of hap- 
piness that falls to the lot of humanity, those ex- 
cepted who have cultivated poetiy as an elegant 
amusement in the hours of relaxation from other 
occupations, or the small number who have en- 
gaged with success in the greater or more arduous 
attempts of the muse, in which all the faculties of 
the mind have been fully and permanently em- 
ployed. Even taste, virtue, and comparative inde- 
pendence, do not seem capable of bestowiiig on 
men of geiuus peace and tranquillity, without such 
occupation as may give regular and healthful ex- 
ercise to the faculties of body and mind. The ami- 
able Shenstone has left us the records of his im- 
prudence, of his indolence, ami of his unhappiness, 
amidst the shades of tlie Leasowes* ; and the vir- 
tues, the learning, and the genius of Gray, equal 
to the h)ftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed to 
procure hiui in the academic bowers of Cambridge, 
iJiat tranquillity and that resi)ect, which less fas- 
tidiousness of taste, and greater constancy and vi- 
gour of exertion, would have doubtless obtamed. 

It is more necessary tliat men of genius should 

* See his letters, which, as a display of the ef- 
fects of poetical idleness, are highly instructive. 



54 



LIFE OF 



be aware of the importance o*' self-command, and 
of exertion, becuuse their iudoleuee is peculiarly 
exposed, not merely to unhappiness, but to diseases 
of mind, and to errors of conduct, which are gene- 
rally fatal. This interesting subject deserves a par- 
ticular investigation ; but we nuist content our- 
selves with one or two cursory remarks. Relief is 
sometimes sought from the melancholy of indo- 
lence in practices, which for a time sooth and grat- 
ify tlie sensations, but which in the end involve the 
sufferer in darker gloom. To command the exter- 
nal circumstances by which happiness is affected, 
is not in human power ; but tiiere are various sub- 
stances in nature which operate on the system of 
the nerves, so as to give a fictitious gaiety to the 
ideas of imagination, and to alter the effect of the 
external impressions which we receive. Opium is 
chiefly employed for this purpose by the disciples 
of Mahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but al- 
kohol, the principle of intoxication in vinous and 
spirituous liquors, is prefen-ed in Europe, and is 
universally used in the Christian world*. Under 
the various wounds to which indolent sensibility is 
exposed, and uiuler the gloomy apprehensions re- 
specting futurity to wfiich it is so often a prey, 
how strong is the temptation to have recourse to 
an antidote by which the pain of these wounds is 
suspended, by Avhich the heart is exhilarated, vi- 
sions of liappiness are excited in the mind, and the 
forms of external nature clothed with new beauty ! 

Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing phrenzy buoys the llghten'd soul, 

* There are a great number of other substances, 
which may be considered under this point of view 
— tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of the number. 
These substances essentially differ from each other 
in their qualities, and an inquiry into the particu- 
lar effects of each on the healtli, morals, and hap- 
piness of those who use them, would be curious 
and useful. The effects of wine and of opium on 
the temperament of sensibility, the editor intended 
to have discussed in this place, at some length ; 
but he found the subject too extensive and too 
professional to be introduced with propriety. The 
difficulty of abandoning any of these narcotics (if 
we may so term them) when inclination is strength- 
ened by habit, is well known. Johnson, in his dis- 
tresses, had experienced the clieering but treach- 
erous influence of wine, and by a powerful effort 
abandoned it. He was obliged, however, to use tea 
as a substitute, and this was the solace to wliich he 
constantly had recourse under his habitual melan- 
choly. The praises of wine form many of the most 
beautiful lyrics of the poets of Greece and Rome, 
and of modern Europe. Whether opium, wliich 
produces visions still more ecstatic, has been the 
theme of the eastern poets, I do not laiow. Wine 
is drunk in small quantities at a time, in company, 
where, /<;;• a time, it promotes harmony and social 
affection. Opium is swallowed by the Asiatics in 
full doses at once, and the inebriate retires to the 
solitary indulgence of his delirious imaginations. 
Hence the wine-drinker appears in a superior light 
to the imbiber of opium, a distinction which he 
owes more to the form than to the quality of his 
Jiquor, 



And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ;, 
And what was difficult, and what was dire. 
Yields to your prowess and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head 



■ Morning comes ; your cares return 



With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, 
When, baited round Cithaeron's cruel sides, 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend. 

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Healtlij 
d.iv. /. 163. 

Such are tlie pleasures and the pains of intoxi- 
cation as they occur in the temperament of sensi- 
bility, described by a genuine poet, with a degree 
of truth and energy, which nothing but exi>erience 
could have dictated. There are indeed some indi- 
viduals of this temperament on whom wine pro- 
duces no cheering influence. On some, even in 
very moderate quantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark and 
melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still larger, the 
fierceness of insanity itself. Such men are happily 
exempted from a temj)tation, to which exjjerience 
teaches us the finest dispositions often j^eld, and 
the influence of which, when strengthened by 
habit, it is a humiliating truth that the most i)ow- 
erful minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius to he 
on their guard against the habitual use of wine, 
because it is apt to steal on them insensibly ; and 
because the temptation to excess usually presents 
itself to them in their social hours, when they are 
alive only to warm and generous emotions, and 
when prudence and moderation are often contemn- 
ed as selfishness and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because oji them 
its eflTects are, jjhjsically and morally, in an espe- 
cial manner injurious. In proportion to its stimu- 
lating influence on the system (on which the plea- 
surable sensations depend) is the debility that en- 
sues ; a debility tliat destroys digestion, and termi- 
nates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, 
or insanity. As the strength of the body decays, 
the volition fails ; in proportion as the sensations 
are soothed and gratified, the sensibility increases ; 
and morbid sensibility is the parent of indolence, 
because, while it impairs the regulating power of 
the mind, it exaggerates all tJie obstacles to exer- 
tion. Activity, perseverance, and self-command, be- 
come more and more difficult, and the great pur- 
poses of utility, patriotism, or of honourable ambi- 
tion, which had occupied the imagination, die away 
in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject of 
our memoirs would be an useless as well as a pain- 
ful task. It is indeed a duty we owe to the liring, 
not to allow our admiration of great genius, or 
even our pity for its unliappy destiny, to conceal or 



ROBERT BURNS. 



5J 



disguise its eiTors. But there are sentiments of re- 
spect, and even of tenderness, with winch this 
duty shouhl be perfoi-ined ; there is an awful sanc- 
tity which invests the mansions of the dead ; and 
let those who moralize over the graces of their 
contemporaries, reflect with humility on their own 
errors, nor forg^et how soon they may themselves 
require the candour and the sympathy they are 
called upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the following' ar- 
ticle appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from wliirh 
it was copied into the Edinburgh newspapers, and 
into various other periodical publications. It is 
from the elegant pen of a lady already alluded to 
in the course of these memoirs*, whose exertions 
for the family of our bard, in the circles of litera- 
ture and fashion in which she moves, have done 
her so much honour. 

" THE attention of the public seems to be much 
occupied at pi-esent witli the loss it has recently 
sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet Ro- 
bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt 
throughout the literary world, as well as lamented 
in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was not therefore probable that such an event 
should be long unattended with the accustomed 
profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs 
which are usually circulated immediately after the 
death of every rare and celebrated personage : I 
had however conceived no intention of appropri- 
ating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns' 
w ritings and character, or of anticipating on the 
pro\-ince of a biographer. 

" Conscious indeed of my own inability to do 
justice to such a subject, I should have contijiued 
wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny 
been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less 
than affection for the memory of a friend, must 
now justify my offering to the iniblic a few at least 
of those observations which an intimate acquaint- 
ance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities 
I have had of observing equally his happy qualities 
and his failings for several years past, have ena- 
bled me to communicate. 

' '• It will actually be an injustice done to Bums' 
character, not only by future generations and for- 
eign countries, but even by his native Scotland, 
and perhaps a number of his cotemporaries, that 
lie is generally talked of, and considered, with re- 
ference to his poetical talents oiilrj : for the fact 
is, even allowing his great and original genius its 
due tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to 
all who have had the advantage of being personally 
acquainted witl\ him) was actually not his forte. 
Many others perhaps may have ascended to proud- 
er heights in the region of Parnassus, but none 
certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms— the 
sorcery, I would almost call it, of fascinating con- 
versation, the spontaneous eloquence of social ar- 
g,ument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant 



* Snc p. 4^. 



repartee ; nor was any man, I belicA-e, ever gifted 
with a larger portion of the " vivida vis aimni.''^ 
His personal endowments were perfectlj corres- 
pondent to the qualifications of his nnnd : his form 
Mas manly; his action, energy itself ; devoid in 
great measure perhaps of those graces, of that po- 
lish, acquired only in the refinement of societies 
where in early life he could have no opportunities 
of mixing ; but wJiere, such was the irresistible 
power of attraction that encircled him, though his 
appearance and manners were always peculiar, he 
never failed to delight, and to excel. His figure 
seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination 
and employments. It seemed rather moulded by- 
nature for the rough exercises of agriculture, than 
the gentler cultivation of the belles lettns. His 
features were stamiied with the hardy character of 
independence, and the firmness of conscious, though 
not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated expres- 
sions of countenance were almost peculiar to him- 
self ; the rapid lightnings of his eye were always 
the harbingers of some flash of genius, whether 
they darted the fiery glances of insulted and in- 
dignant superiority, or beamed with the iznpas- 
sioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous affec- 
tions. His voice alone could improve upon the 
magic of his eye ; sonorous, replete with the finest 
modulations, it alternately captivated the ear with 
the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthu- 
siastic patriotism. The keenness of satire was, I 
am almost at a loss whether to say his forte or his 
foible ; for though nature had endowed him with 
a portion of the most pointed excellence in that 
dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the 
vehicle of personal, and sometimes unfounded an- 
imosifies. It was not always that sportiveness of 
iMimour, that " unwary pleasantry," which Stei-ne 
has depictured with touches so conciliatory, but 
the darts of ridicule were fi-equently directed as 
the caprice of the instant suggested, or as the alter- 
cations of parties and of persons happened to kin- 
dle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or 
aversion. This, however, was not invariably the 
case ; his wit (which is i^o unusual matter indeed) 
had always the start of his judgment, and would 
lead him to the iudulgence of raillery uniformly- 
acute, but often unaccompanied with the least 
desire to wound. Ihe suppression of an arch and 
full-pointed bon-mot frcjii a dread of offending its 
object, the sage of Zurie very properly classes as 
a virttie 07ily to he sought for in the Calendar of 
Saints ; if so, Burns must not be too severely dealt 
with, for being rather deficient in it. He paid for 
this mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. 
" 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic" to say of him, 
as was said of Yorick, '' that for every ten jokes 
he got an hundred enemies ;" but much allow ance 
will be made by a candid jnind for the splenetic 
warmth of a spirit whom " distress Iiad spited 
with the world," and which, unbounded in its in- 
tellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experi- 
enced the curbs imposed by the waywardness of 
his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and tem- 
per was indeed checked by almost habitual disap* 
pointments, which sat heavy on a heart, that ac- 
knowledged the ruling passion of independence, 



&6 



LIFE OF 



without liarlng ever been placed beyond tlie grasp 
of penury. His soul was never languid or inac- 
tive, and his genius was extinguished only with 
the last sparks of retreating life. His passions 
rendered him, according as they disclosed them- 
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of en- 
thusiastic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for 
he possessed none of that negative insipidity of 
character, whose love might be regarded with in- 
difference, or whose resentment could be consid- 
ered with contempt. In tliis, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincture from his 
own ; for he acknowledged in the universe but two 
classes of objects, those of adoration the most fer- 
vent, or of aversion the most uncontroulable ; and 
it has been fi-equently a reproach to him, that, un- 
■flusceptible of indifference, often hating, where he 
ought only to have despised, he alternately opened 
his heart and poured forth the treasures of his un- 
derstanding to such as were incapable of appre- 
ciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges 
of an adversary, some who were unqualified in all 
respects for the honour of a contest so distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson pro- 
fessed to love " a good hater," a temperament that 
would have singularly adapted him to cherish a 
prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps 
fell but little short even of the surly doctor in 
this qualification, as leng as the disposition to ill- 
will continued ; but the warmth of his passions 
was fortunately coi-rected by their vei-satility. He 
was seldoni, indeed never implacable in his re- 
sentments, and sometimes it has been alleged, not 
inviolably faithful in his engagements of friend- 
shii). Much indeed has been said about his incon- 
stancy and caprice, but I am inclined to believe, 
that they originated less in a levity of sentiment, 
than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, 
which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and 
his sensations of pique, where he fancied he had 
discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
ness, took their measure of asperity from the over- 
flowings of the opposite sentiments which preceded 
them, and which seldom failed to regain its ascen- 
dency in his bosom on the return of calmer reflex- 
ion. He was candid and manly in the avowal of 
his en-ors, and his avowal was a reparation. His 
native ^e;'/'c never forsaking him for a moment, 
the value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced 
tenfold towards a generous mind, from its never 
being attended with servility. His mind, organized 
only for the stronger and more acute operations 
of the passions, was impracticable to the efforts of 
superciliousness that would have depressed it into 
humility, and equally superior to the encroach- 
ments of venal suggestions that might have led 
him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could receive 
it tempered with less delicacy than might have 
been expected, as he seldom tx-ansgressed extrava- 
gantly in that way himself: where he paid a com- 
pliment it might indeed claim the power of intoxi- 
cation, as approbation from him was always an 
honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity of 
his heart. It has been sonittimes represented, by 
those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, 



though they eould not hope wholly to obscure lliat 
native brilliancy, which the powers of this extra- 
ordinary man had invariably bestowed on every 
thing that came from his lips or pen, that the his- 
tory of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious 
fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining 
the interests of the great, and enhancing the mer- 
its of what in reality required no foil. The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night, Tam O'Shanter, and the 
Mountain Daisy, besides a number of later produc- 
tions, where the maturity of his genius will be 
readily traced, and which will be given to the 
public as soon as his friends have collected and 
arrajiged them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; 
and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in 
the ranks of society titan that of a peasant, they 
had perhaps bestowed as unusual a grace there, as 
even on the humbler shade of rustic inspiration, 
from whence they really sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns' education, and 
to the laborious though honourable station of ru- 
ral industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
almost every inliabitant of the south of Scotland 
can give testimony. His only surviving brother, 
Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his 
forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauch- 
line* ; and our poet's eldest son (a lad of nine 
years of age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheiitor of Jiis fa- 
ther's talents, as well as indigence) has been des- 
tined by his family to the humble employments of 
the loomt. 

" That Bums had received no classical educa- 
tion, and was acquainted with the Greek and Ro- 
man authors only through the medium of transla- 
tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits 
of conversing with him might readily be convinced. 
I have indeed seldom observed him to be at a loss 
in conversation, unless where the dead languages 
and their writers have been the subjects of discus- 
sion. When I have pressed him to tell me, why he 
never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in i>ar- 
tieular, a language which his happy memory would 
have so soon enabled him to be master of, he used 
only to reply, with a smile, that he had already 
learnt all the Latin he desired to know, and that 
was " Omnia vincit amor" a sentence, that, from 
his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should 
undoubtedly seem that he was most thoroughly 
versed in ; but I really believe his classic erudition 
extended little, if any farther. 

" The penchant Burns had uniformly acknow- 
ledged for the festive pleasures of the table, and 
towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's 
creation, has been the rallying point from whence 
the attacks of his censors have been umformly di- 
rected, and to these it must be confessed he shewed 
himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with 
alternate happiness of description, the frolic spirit 
of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the ten- 
der and ijnpassioned sentiments in which beauty 

* This very respectable and very superior man 
is now removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents lands 
on the estate of Closeburn, and is a tenant of the 
venerable Dr. Monteith. E. 

t This destination is now altered. E. 



ROBERT BUllNS. 



57 



always taught him to pour forth his own. But 
M-Iio would wish to reprove the ft-eling's ho has 
consecrattd with sucli lively touches of nature ? 
and where is the rug'ged moralist that will 2)er- 
suade us so far to " chill the genial current of the 
soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his 
Corinna, or that Auacreon sung beneath his vine ?, 
" I will not however undertake to be the apo- 
logist of the irregularities even of a man of ge- 
nius, though 1 believe it is as certain that genius 
never was free from ii-regularities, as that their 
absolution may in great measure be justly claim- 
ed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had 
continued very stationary in its intellectual ac- 
<iuirements, had it never given birth to any but 
men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a 
due regard to the decorums of the world, have 
been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with 
genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though 
lliere I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even 
incompatible ; besides, the frailties that cast their 
shade over the splendour of superior merit, are 
more conspicuously glaring than where they are 
the attendants of mere mediocrity. It is only on 
the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the peb- 
ble may be soiled, and we never regard it. The 
eccentric intuitions of genius too often yield the 
soul to the wild effeiwescence of desires, always 
unbounded, and sometimes equally dajigei'ous to 
the repose of others as fatal to its own. No won- 
der then if \'irtue herself be sometimes lost in the 
blaze of kindling animation, or that the calm mo- 
nitions of reason are not invariably found sufficient 
to fetter an imagination, which scorns the narrow 
limits and restrictions that would chain it to the 
level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, tlie 
child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to controul 
the passions wliieh pi'oved a source of frequent er- 
rors and misfortunes to him, Burns made his own 
artless apology in language more impressive than 
all the argumentatory \-indications in the world 
could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates tiie gradual expansion of his mind to the 
lessons of the '' tutelary musse," who concludes an 
address to her ptipil, ahnost unique for simplicity 
and beautiful poetry, with these lines : 

" I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By pussion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray. 

Was light J'rmn heaven* .'" 

'• I have already transgressed beyond the bounds 
I had proposed to myself, on first committing this 
sketch to paper, which comprehends what at least 
1 have been led to deem the k^ading features of 
Bums' mind and character ; a literary critique I 
do not aim at; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these 
jiages I have been able to delineate any of those 
strong traits that distinguished hu^of those ta- 
lents which raised liim from the pSI^h, wher«he 
passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his 

* Vide the Vision— Duau 2d. 



nule wreaths of poesy with the wild field flowers 
that sprung around his cottage, to that enviable 
eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will 
long cherish his memory with delight and grati- 
tude ; and proudly remember, that beneath her 
cold sky, a genius was ripened, witliout care or 
culture, that would have done honour to clinu'^i 
more favourable to tlM)se luxuriances— that wariuth 
of colouring aiid fancy, in which he so eminently 
excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in 
the public prints, ever since the idea of sendins: 
this sketch to some one of them was formed, 1 
find private animosities have not yet subsided, and 
that envy has not yet exhausted all her shafts. I 
still trust, however, that honest fajue will be per- 
manently affixed to Burns' character, which I think 
it will be found he has merited by the candid and 
impartial among his countrymen. And where a 
recollection of the imprudencies that sullied hisf 
brighter qualifications interposes, let the imperfec- 
tion of all human excellence be remembered at the 
same time ; leaving those inconsistencies, >\ hich 
alternately exalted his natitre into the seraph, and 
sunk it again into the man, to the tribunal whicli 
alone can investigate the labj rintlis of the human 
heart— 

" Where they alike in trembling hope repose, — 
" The bosom of his father and his GoJ." 

Gray's Elegy. 
" Annandale, August 7, 1796." 



AFTER this account of the liffe and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that some 
inquiry should be made into his litera>ry merits. 
It will not however be necessary to enter very 
minutely into this investigation. If fiction be, t\s 
some suppose, tiie soul of poetry, no one had ever 
less pretensions to the name of jioet than Burns. 
Thougli he has displayed great ])Owers of imagi- 
nation, yet the subjects on which he has written, 
arc seldom, if ever, imaginary ; his poems, as well 
as his letters, may be coiisiilered as the eff'usion^ 
of his sensibility, and the transcript of his own 
musings on the real incidents of his humble life. 
If we add, that they also contain most happy de- 
lineations of the characters, manners, and sceneiy 
that presented themselves to his observation, we 
shall include almost all the subjects c» liis muse. 
His writings may therefore be regarded as affiard- 
ing a great part of the data on which our account) 
of his personal character has been founded ; and 
most of the observations we have applied to the; 
man, are applicable, with little variation, to the 
poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his original 
station in life, was not more evldi-nt on his form 
aiul mantiers, iJian on his i)oetical productions. 
The incidents which form the subjects of his po- 
ejns, thougii some of them highly interesting and 
susceptible of poetical imagery, i^re incidents iu 
tlie life of a i)easant who takes no pains to disguise 
the lowliness of his condition, or to throw into shade 
H 



LIFE OF 



the cu-cumstp.Mccs attending it, which more feeble 
or more artiiicial minds would have endeavoured 
to conceal. The same rudeness and inattention 
appears in tJie formation of his rhymes, which are 
frequent!)' incorrect, while the measui'e in which 
many of the poems are written has little of the 
pomp or harmony of modem versification, and is 
indeed, to an English ear, strange and uncouth. 
The greater part of his earlier poems are written 
in the dialect of liis country, which is obscure, if 
not unintelligible, to Englishmen, and which, though 
it still adlieres more or less to the speech of almost 
every Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious 
are now endeavouring to banish from their tongues 
as well as their writings. The use of it in com- 
position, naturally therefore calls up ideas of vul- 
garity in the mind, These singularities are in- 
creased by the character of the poet, who delights 
to express himself with a simplicity that ap- 
proaches to nakedness, and with an umneasured 
energy that often alarms delicacy, and sometimes 
offends taste. Hence, in approaching him, the first 
impression is perhaps repulsive : there is an ail* of 
coarseness about him, which is diflficultly recon- 
ciled with our established notions of poetical ex- 
cellence. 

As the reader however becomes better acquaint- 
ed with the poet, the effects of his peculiarities 
lessen. He perceives in liis poems, even on the 
lowest subjects, expi'essions of sentiment, and de- 
lineations of manners, which are highly interest- 
ing. The scenery he describes, is evidently taken 
from real life ; the characters he introduces, and 
the incidents he relates, have the impression of 
nature and truth. His humour, though wild and 
unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, and is sometimes 
Jieightened in its effects by the introduction of 
emotions of tenderness, with which genuine hu- 
mour so happily unites. Nor is this the extent of 
his power. The reader, if he examines farther, 
discovers that the poet is not confined to the de- 
scriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
found, as occasion offei-s, to rise with ease into the 
teri-ible and the sublime. Every where he appears 
devoid of artifice, performuig what he attempts, 
with little apparent effort, and impressing on the 
offspring of hit>faticij,the stamp of his under stand- 
i7ig. The reader, capable of forming a just esti- 
mate of poetical talents, discovers in these circum- 
stances marks of uncommon genius, and is willing 
to investigate more miimtely its nature, and its 
claims to originality. This last point we shall ex- 
amine first. 

That Bui-ns had not the advantages of a classi- 
cal education, or of any degree of acquaintance 
with the Greek or Roman writers in their original 
dress, has appeared in the history of his life. He 
acquired indeed some knowledge of the French 
language, but it does not appear that he was ever 
much conversant in French literature, nor is there 
any evidence of his having derived any of his po- 
etical stores from that source. With the English 
classics he became well acquainted in the course 
of his life, and the effects of this acquaintance are 
observable in his latter productions ; but the cha- 
racter and style of his poetry were formed very 
oarly, iind the model which he followedj in as far 



as he can be saici to have had one, is to he Sought 
for in the works of the poets who have written in 
the Scottish dialect— in tlie works of such of them 
more especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of 
Scotland. Some observations on these, may form 
a proper introduction to a more particular exami- 
nation of the poetry of Burns. The studies of the 
editor in this direction are indeed very recent and 
very imperfect. It would have been imprudent 
for him to have entered on this subject at all, but 
for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay, of Oclitertyre, 
whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, and 
to whom the reader must ascribe whatever is of 
any value in the following imperfect sketch of 
hterary compositions in the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- 
ed, that, in the thirteenth century, the language 
of the two British nations, if at all different, dif- 
fered only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like 
the Welsh and Armoric in the other, being con- 
fined to the mountainous districts*. The English 
under the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallace 
and Bruce, spoke the same language. We may 
observe also, that in Scotland the liistory of poetry 
ascends to a period nearly as rejnote as in Eng- 
land. Barbour, and blind Harry, James the First, 
Dunbar, Douglas, and Liiidsay,who lived in the four- 
teenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coe- 
val with the fathers of poetry in England ; and, in 
the opinion of Mr. Warton, not inferior to them 
in genius or in composition. Though the language 
of the two countries gradually deviated from each 
other during this period, yet the difference on the 
whole was not considei-able ; not perhaps greater 
than between the different dialects of the difierent 
parts of England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the 
language of Scotland was in a flourishing condi- 
tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to those 
in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the 
whole, operated to prevent this. The first was 
the passion of the Scots for composition in Latin ; 
and the second, the accession of James the Sixth 
to the English throne. It may easily be imagined, 
that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable ta- 
lents, even in part, to the cultivation of liis native 
tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters in 
Italy, he would have left compositions in that lan- 
guage, which might have incited other men of ge- 
nius to have followed his examplef, and given du- 
ration to the language itself. The union of the 
two crowns, in the person of James, overthrew all 
reasonable exiJectation of this kind. That monarch, 
seated on the English throne, would no longer suf- 
fer himself to be addressed in the rude dialect in 
which the Scottish clergy had so often insulted his 
dignity. He encouraged Latin or English only, 
bolli of which he prided himself on writing with 
j)urity, though he himself never could acquire the 
English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scottish 
idiom and intonation to the last.— Scotsmen of ta- 

t Historiaff Essay on Scottish Song, p. xx. by 
Mr. Ritson. 

* AjJ! ' The autlxors of the Ddic/m Poetarttw 
Scot^mn, <irc. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



49 



>.6ms declined writing in their native language, 
whicli tlicy knew was not acceptable to their 
leanu-d and pedantic monarch, and at a time 
when national prejudice and enmity prevailed to 
a great degree, tliey disdained to study the nice- 
ties of the English tongue, though of so much ea- 
sier acquisition than a dead language. Lord Ster- 
ling, and Drummond of Hawthornden, the only 
Scotsmen who wrote poetry in those times, were 
exceptions. They studied the language of Eng- 
land, and composed in it with precision and ele- 
gance. They were, however, the last of their coun- 
trymen who deserved to be considered as poets in 
that century. The muses of Scotland sunk into 
silence, and did not again raise their voices for a 
period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this extreme 
depression, among a ptople comparatively learned, 
enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall we impute it to 
the fanaticism of the covenanters, or to the tyran- 
ny of the house of Stewart after their restoration 
to the throne? Doubtless these causes operated, 
but they seem unequal to account for the effect. 
In England, similar distractions and oppression 
took place, yet poetry flourished there in a re- 
markable degree. During this period, Cowley, and 
Waller, and Di-jden sung, and Milton raised his 
strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the causes 
already mentioned, another must be added, in ac- 
counting for the torpor of Scottish literature— the 
want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to em- 
ploy. The civil wars had frightened away the La- 
tin muses, and no standard had been established of 
the Scottish tongue, which was deviating still far- 
ther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland, may be 
dated frojn the establish men t of the union, or ra- 
ther from the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. 
The nations being finally incorporated, it was 
clearly seen that their tongues must in the end 
incorporate also ; or rather indeed that the Scot- 
tish language must degenerate into a provincial 
idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at 
distinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the 
united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and imi- 
tated their beauties in the same manner as they 
studied the classics of Greece and Rome. They 
had admirable models of composition lately pre- 
sented to them by the writers of the reigu of 
Queen Anne ; particularly in tlie periodical pa- 
pers published by Steele, Addisou, and their asso- 
ciated friends, which circulated widely through 
Scotland, and diffused every where a taste fbr pu- 
rity of style and sentiment, and for critical disqui- 
sition. At length the Scottish writers succeeded in 
English composition, and an union was formed of 
the literary talents, as well as of the legislatures 
of the two nations. On this occasion the poets 
took the lead. While Heiu-y Home*, Dr. Wallace, 
and their learned associates, were only laying in 
their intellectual stores, and studying to clear 
themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, 
Mallet, and Hamilton of Bangour, had made their 



Lord Kaims. 



appearance before the public, and been enrolled 
on the list of English poets. The writers in prose 
followed— a numerous and powerful band, and 
poured their ample stores into the general stream 
of British literature. Scotland possessed her foui*. 
universities before the accession of James to the 
English throne. Immediately before the union, 
she acquired her parochial schools. These esta- 
blishments combining happily together, made the 
elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, and 
presented a direct path, by which the ardent stu- 
dent might be carried along into the recesses of 
science or learning. As ci\Tll broils ceased, and 
faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider 
field was opened to literary ambition, and the in- 
fluence of the Scottish institutions for instruction, 
on the productions of the press, became more and 
more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable tliat the establislimenr 
of the parochial schools produced effects on the 
rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hi- 
therto been suspected, and which, though less 
splendid in their nature, are not however to be re- 
garded as trivial, whether we consider the happi- 
ness or the morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe that the ori- 
ginal inliabitants of the British isles possessed u 
peculiar and an interesting species of music, which 
being banished from the plains by the successive, 
invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was 
preserved with the native race, in the v ilds of Ire- 
land, and in tlie mountains of Scotland and Wales. 
The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welch music dif- 
fer indeed fi-oni each other, but the difference may 
be considered as in dialect only, and probably pro- 
duced by the influence of time, like the difterent 
dialects of their common language. If this con- 
jecture be true, tlie Scottish music must be more 
immediately of a Highland origin, and the Low- 
land tunes, though now of a character somewhat 
distinct, must have descended from the moun- 
tains in remote ages. Whatever credit may be 
given to conjectures evidently involved in great 
uncertainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
tish peasantry have been long in possession of a 
number of songs and ballads composed in their 
native dialect, and sung to their native music. 
The subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and, in the 
succession of time, varied probably as the condi- 
tion of society varied. During the separation and 
the hostility of the two nations, these songs and 
ballads, as far as our imperfect documents enable 
us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as ihe 
Hunfis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlmv. Af- 
ter the union of the two crowns, when a certain 
degree of peace and of tranquillity took place, the. 
rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. 
" In the want of real evidence respecting the his- 
tory of our songs," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochter- 
tyre, " recourse may be had to conjecture. One 
would be disposed to think that the most beautiful 
of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words 
after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants 
of the borders, who had formerly been warriors 
from choice, and husbandmen from necessity, ei- 
ther quitt«l the country, or were transformed int*> 



OO 



LIFE OF 



real shepherds, easy in their circumstances, and 
satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit 
of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Fro- 
issart, remained, sufficient to inspire elevation of 
sentimejit and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness which hud long subsisted 
between the gentry and the peasantry, could not 
all at once be obliterated, and this connexion tend- 
ed to sweeten rural life. In this state of inno- 
cence, ease, and tranquillity of jnind, the love of 
poetry and music would still maintain its ground, 
though it would jiaturally assume a form conge- 
nial to the nioi-e peaceful state of society. The 
.minstrels whose metrical tales used once to rouse 
the borderers like the trumpet's sound, had betn, 
by an order of the legislature (in 1579), classed 
■with rogues and vagabonds, and attempted to be 
suppressed. Knox and his disciples influenced the 
Scottish parliament, but contejided in vain with 
her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pro- 
bably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
tributary streams, one or more original geniuses 
may have arisen, who were destined to give a new 
turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would 
see that the events and pursuits which chequer 
private life, were the proper subjects for popular 
poetry. Love, which had formerly held a divided 
sway with glory and ambition, becaiiie now the 
master passion of tiie soul. To pourtray in lively 
and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, 
the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the 
love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, affords ample 
scope to the rural poet. Love-songs, of which Ti- 
bullus himself would not have been ashamed, 
might be composed by an uneducated rustic with 
.a slight tincture of letters ; or if in tliese songs 
the character of the rustic be sometimes assumed, 
the truth of character and tlie language of nature 
are preserved. With unaffected simplicity and 
tenderness, topics are urged, most likely to soften 
the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain 
a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a melan- 
choly cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dis- 
pels the deep and settled gloom which character- 
izes the sweetest of the Highland Ivenigs, or vocal 
airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of 
them are lively and humorous, and some appear, 
to us, coai'se and indelicate. They seem, however, 
l^enuine descriptions of the manners of an ener- 
getic and sequestered people in their hours of 
mirth and festi> ity, though in their portraits some 
objects are brought into open view, which more 
fastidious painters would have thrown into shade. 
"• As those rural poets sung for amusement, not 
for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a love- 
song, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like 
<the Avoi-ks of the elder minstrels, were seldom com- 
mitted to wi-iting, but treasured up in the memory 
of their friends and neighbours. Neither known 
to the learned nor patronized by the great, these 
rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and, by a 
strange fatality, their story, and even their very 
names, have been forgotten*. When proper mo- 

* In the Pepys collection, there are a few Scot- 
lish songs of the last centuiy, but the naiues of 
the authoi's are not preserved. 



dels for pastoral songs were produced, there would 
be no want of imitators. I'o succeed in this spe- 
cies of composition, soundness of understaudmg 
and sensibility of heart w^re more requisite, than 
flights of imagination, or pomp of numbers. Great 
chang..-s have certainly taken place in Scottish 
song-writi.ig, though we caimot trace the steps of 
this change, and few of the pieces admired in 
Queen Mary's tiaie, are now to be discovered in 
modern collections. It is possible, though not pro- 
bable, that the music may have remained nearly 
the same, though the words to the tunes were en- 
tirely new-modelled*," 

'I'hesc conjectures are highly ingenious. It can- 
not however be presumed that the state of ease 
and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay, took 
place among the Scottish peasantry immediately 
on the union of the crowns, or indeed during the 
greater part of the sevejiteenth century. The 
Scottish nation, through all its ranks, was deeply 
agitated by the civil wars, and the religious perse- 
cutions which succeeded each other in that disas- 
trous period ; it was not till after the revolution 
in 1688, and the subsequent establishment of their 
beloved form of church governnient, that the pea- 
santry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative re- 
pose ; and it is since that period that a great num- 
ber of the most admired Scottish songs have been 
produced, though the tunes to which they are sung 
are, in general, of much greater antiquity. It is 
not unreasonable to suppose, that the peace and 
security derived from the revolution and the union;, 
produced a favourable chaage on the rustic poet- 
ry of Scotland, and it can scarcely be doubted, that 
the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which 
a certain degree of instruction was dillused uni- 
versally among the peasantry, contributed to tliis 
happy effect. 

Soon after this, appeared Allan Ramsay, the- 
Scottish Theocritus, He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annandale, 
in a sjiiall hamlet by the banks of Glengonar, a 
stream Avhich descends into the Clyde, Ihe ruins 
of this hamlet are still shewn to the inquiring ira- 
vellert. He was the son of a peasant, and proba- 
bly received such instruction as his pai-ish school 
bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admit- 
tedj. Ramsay jnade his appeai-ance in Edinburgh 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ocli' 
tertyre to the editor, Sept. 11, 1799, In the Bee, 
•vol. II, p. 201, is a communication of Mr. Ram- 
say, under the signature of J. Runcole, which en- 
ters into this subject somewhat moi'e at large. In 
that pai)er, he gives his reasons for questioning 
the antiquity of many of the most celebrated Scot- 
tish songs. 

t See CampbcWs History of Poetry iti Scotland, 
p. 185. 

X The fallier of Ramsay was, it is said, a woi-k- 
man in the lead-mines of the Earl of Hoj)eton, at 
Lead'hills, The workmen in those mines at pre- 
sent, are of a veiy superior character to minex's in 
general. They have only six hours of labour in 
the day, and have time for reading. They have a 
common library, supported by contribution, con- 
taining several thousand ^olu^J^e«, When this was 



ROBERT BURN^. 



01 



iti the beginning of the present century, in the 
humble cluin.eter of an apprentice to a barber, or 
peruke-maker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen 
years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for 
his social disposition, and his talent for the com- 
position of verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, 
chancing his profession for that of a bookst ll^r, he 
became intimate with many of the literary, as well 
as of the gay and fasliionabie characters of his 
time*. Having publisJied a volume of poems of 
his own in 1721, which was favourably received, 
he undertook to make a collection of ancient Scot- 
tish poems, under the title of the Ever-green, and 
was afterwards encouraged to present to the world 
a collection of Scottish songs. " From what sources 
he procured them," says Mi*. Ramsay of Ochter- 
tyre, " whether from ti'udition or manuscript, is 
■uncertain. As in the Ever-green he made some 
rash attempts to improve on the originals of his 
ancient poems, he probably used still greater fi-ee- 
dom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot 
however be known on this point, till inanuscripts 
of the songs printed 'oy him, more ancient than 
the present century, shall be produced, or access 
be obtained to his own papers, if they are still in 
existence. To several tunes, wliich either wanted 
words, or had words that were improper or imper- 
fect, he or his friends adapted verses worthy of 
the melodies they accompanied, worthy indeed of 
the golden age. These verses were perfectly in- 
telligible to every rustic, yet justly adniired by per- 
sons of taste, wiio regard- d them as the genuine 
offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects 
Ramsay had advantages not possessed by poets 
writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. Soags 
in the (balect of Cumberland or Lancashire could 
never be popular, because these dialects have ne- 
ver been spoken by persons of fashion. But till 
the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, 
from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric 
language. It is true the English moralists and po- 
ets were by this time read by every person of con- 
dition, and considered as the standards for polite 
composition. But as national prejudices were still 
strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, 
continued to speak their native dialect, and that 
with an elegance and poignancy, of which Scots- 
men of the present day can have no just notion. 
I am old enougli to have conversed with Mr. Spit- 
tal of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, 
who survived all the members of the union jiarlia- 
ment, in which he had a seat. His pronunciation 
and phraseology diifered as much from the com- 
mon dialect as the language of St. James's from 
that of Thames-street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues of the 

instituted I have jiot learnt. These miners are 
said to be of a very sober and jnoral character. 
Allan Ramsay, when very young, is supposed to 
have been a washer of ore in these mines. 

* " He was coeval with a Joseph Mitchell, and 
his club of small wits, who, about 1719, published 
a very poor miscellany, to which Dr. Young, the 
autlior of the Night Thoughts, prefixed a copy of 
verses." Extract of a letter from ])Ir. Ramsaij of 
Ochtcrtijre to the editor. 



two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed 
like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would 
have had its own classics, not in a single branch, 
but in the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit .ind fa- 
shion of his day, and several of them attempted 
to write poetry in liis manner. Persons too idle 
or too dissipated to think of compositions that re- 
quired much exertion, succeeded very happily iu 
making tender sonnets to favourite tunes in com- 
pliment to their mistresses, and, transforming 
themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught 
the language of the characters they assumed. 
Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawfurd of 
Auchinames, wrote the modern song of Tweed 
Side*, which has been so much admired. In 1743» 
sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both 
spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, 
in the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful 
song, beginning. My sheep I neglected, I lost my 
shee/)-hook, on the marriage of his mistress. Miss 
Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And, about 
twelve years afterwards, the sister of sir Gilbert 
wrote the ancient words to the tune of the Flow- 
ers of the Forestf, and supposed to allude to the 
battle of Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, 
it is a sweet, and, though in some parts allegori- 
cal, a natural expression of national sorrow. The 
more modern words, to the same tune, beginning, 
/ have seen the sniiling of fortune beguiling, were 
written long before by Mrs. Coekburn, a woman 
of great wit, who outlived all the first group of li- 
terati of the present century, all of whom were 
very fond of her. I was delighted with her com- 
pany, though, when I saw her, she was very old. 
Much did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these Instancts of Scottish songs, 
produced in the earlier part of the present cen- 
tury, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardiknnte, 
by lady Wardlaw, the ballad of IVilliam and Mar' 
gnret, and the song entitled the Birks of Ender- 
inay, by Mallet ; the love-song, beginning, For 
ever fortune rvilt thou //rove, produced by the 
j'outhful muse of Thomson ; and the exquisite 
pathetic ballad, T/ie Braes of 7'ar row, hy Hamilton 
of Bangour. On the r vival of letters in Scotland, 
subsequent to the Union, a very general taste 
seems to have prevailed for the national songs and 
music. " For many years," says Mr. Ramsay, 
" the singing of songs was the great delight of 
the higher and middle order of the peojde, as 
well as of the peasantry ; and, though a taste for 
Italian music has interfered with this amusement, 
it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty 
years ago, the common people were not ojily ex- 
ceedingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metri- 
cal history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn 
of youth, listened to them with delight, when 
reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and 
Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Halles was 
wont to call Blind Harry their bidle, he being 
their great favourite next the scriptures. When, 
therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first 



Beginning, ^f^hat beauties 
Beginniii 
ciocs-milking. 



ajv-f^iiujiiig, rr ,,111. ./cM«i,t,. does Flora disclos'-. 
t Beginning, / have heard a lilting at out* 



Ci> 



L1J?E OF 



emotions of gciiius, he wanted noi motlels sui ge- 
neris. But, though the seeds of poetry weye 
scattered with a plentiful hand among the Scot- 
tish peasantry, the product was probably like that 
of pears and apples— of a thousand that spring up, 
nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the 
teeth on edge ; forty-five or more are passable 
and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. 
Allan Ramsay and Burns ai*e rvlldlings of this 
last description. They had the example of the 
elder Scottish poets ; they were not without the 
aid of the best English writers ; and, what was of 
still more importance, they were no strangers to 
the book of nature, and to the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent, that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the re^-iver of the I'ural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish po- 
ems, under the name of the Ever-green, his col- 
lection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the 
principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, have 
been universally read among the peasantry of his 
countrj', and have, in some degree, superseded the 
adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by 
Barbour ai.d Blind Harry. Burns was well ac- 
quainted with all of these. He had also before 
him the poems of Fergiisson, in the Scottish dia- 
lect, which have been produced in our own times, 
and of which it will be necessary to give a short 
account. 

Fergusson Avas born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, a 
^ii-cumstance, however, which, in Scotland, implies 
no very high rank in society. From a well writ- 
ten and apparently authentic account of liis life*, 
we learn that lie spent six years at the schools of 
Edinburgh ajid Dundee, ami sevei-al years at the 
universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrew's. It 
appears that he was at one time destined for the 
Scottish church ; but, as he advanced towards 
manhood, he renounced that intention, and, at 
Edinburgh, entered the office of a writer to the 
signet, a title which designates a separate and 
kighcr order of Scottish attorneys. Fergusson had 
sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, 
and talents for society of the most attractive kind. 
To such a man, no situation could be more dan- 
^^erous than that in which he was placed. The 
excesses into which he was led impaired his feeble 
constitution, and he sunk under them in the month 
of October, 1774, in his 23d or 24th year. Burns 
was not acquainted with the poems of this youth- 
ful genius, when he himself began to write poe- 
try ; and when he first saw them, he had renoun- 
ced the muses. But, while he re&ided in tJje town 
of Irvine, meeting with Fergicsson's Scottish Po- 
ems, he informs us that he " strung his lyre anew 
with emulating vigourf." Touched by the sym- 
pathy originating iji kindred genius, and in tlie 
forebodings of similar fortune. Burns i-egarded 
Fergusson with a pai-tial and afltctjonate admira- 
tion. Over his grave he erected a monument, as 

* In the Supplement to the Encijclopcedia Bri- 
tannica. See also CampbelPs Introduction to the 
Ylistory of Poetry in Scotland, p. 2S8. 

+ See/». 13. 



has already been mentioned, and his poems he 
has, in several instances, made the subjects of his 
imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems known 
to Burns, those who are acquainted with them 
will see that they are chiefly humorous or pathe- 
tic, and under one or other of these descriptions 
most of his own poems will class. Let us com- 
pare him with his predecessors, under each of 
these points of view, and close our examination 
with a few general obsei-vations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scotland 
has produced, comparatively speaking, few wri- 
ters who have excelled in humour. But this olj- 
servation is true only when applied to those, who 
have continued to reside in their own country, 
and have confined themselves to composition in 
pure English ; and, in these circumstances, it ad- 
mits of an easy explanation. Tlie Scottish poets, 
who have written in the dialect of Scotland, have 
been at all times i-emarkable for dwelling on sub- 
jects of humour, in which, indeed, many of them 
have excelled. It would be easy to show, that 
the dialect of Scotland, having become provincial, 
is now scarcely suited to the more elevated kinds 
of poetry. If we may believe that the poem of 
Christis Kirk of the Grene, was written by James 
the First of Scotland*, this accomplished monarch, 
who had received an English education under the 
direction of Henry the Fourtli, and who bore arius 
under his gallant successor, gave the model on 
which the greater part of the humorous produc- 
tions of the rustic muse of Scotland has been 
formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was rejjrinted 
by Ramsay, somewhat jnodernized in the oi-tho- 
graphy, ajid two cantos were a<lded by him, in 
which he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of King James is usually printed in 
Ramsay's works. The royal bai-d describes, in the 
first canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- 
tion in archery, ending in an aflfray. Ramsay re- 
lates the restoration of concord, and the renewal of 
the rural sports, with the humours of a country 
wedding. Though each of the jjoets describe* 
the manners of his respective age, yet, in the 
whole piece, there is a verysuflicient uniformity; 
a striking proof of the identity of character in 
the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, distant 
from each other three hundred years. It is an 
honourable distinction to this body of men, that 
their character and manners, very little embellish- 
ed, have been found to be susceptible of an amu- 
sing and interesting species of poetry; and it 
must appear not a little curious, that the single 
nation of modern Europe, which possesses an ori- 
ginal rural poetry, should have received the mo- 
del followed by their rustic bards from the mo- 
narch on the throne. 

* Notwithstanding the evidence produced on 
this subject by Mr. Tytler, the editor acknow- 
ledges his being somewhat of a sceptic on this 
point. Sir David Dalrymple inclines to the oj)!- 
nion that it was written by his successor' James 
the Fifth. There are difficulties attending this 
supposition also. But on the subject of Scottish 
ntiquiiies, tlie editor is an incompetent jndgc. 



JiOBEUT BURNS. 



03- 



The two atlditional cantos to Chvistis Kirk of 
the Grene, written by Ramsuy, tlioiijjh objectiona- 
ble in point of delicacy, aie among- the happiest 
of his productions. His chief excellence, indeed, 
lay in tlie description of rural characters, inci- 
dents, and scenery, for he did not possess any 
very high powers either of imagination or of un- 
derstanding. He was well acquainted with the 
peasantry of Scotland, their lives and opinions. 
The subject was, in a gr._at measure, new ; his 
talents were equal to tlie subject ; and he has 
shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral 
poetrj . In his Gentle S/tcphcrd, the charactt rs 
are delineations from mtture, the descriptive parts 
are in the genuine st} le of beautiful simplicity, 
tlie passions and affections of rural life are finely 
pourtrayed, and the heart is pleasingly interested 
ill the liappiness that is bestowed on innocence 
and virtue. Throughout the whole, there is an 
air of reality which the most careless reader can- 
not but perceive ; and, in fact, no poem ever, 
perhaps, acquired so high a reputation, in which 
truth received so little embellishment fi-om the 
imagination. In his pastoral songs, and in his 
rural tales, Ramsay appears to less advantage, in- 
deed, but still with considerable attraction. The 
story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though 
somewhat licentious, may rank with the happiest 
production of Prior or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at 
pure English composition, he is feeble and unin- 
teresting, a)id seldom eve)i reaches mediocrity*. 
Neither are his familiar epistles and elegies in 
the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. 
Though Fergussoai had higher powers of imagina- 
tion than Ramsay, his genius was not of the high- 
est order ; nor did his leai-niug, which was consi- 
derable, improve his genius. His poems, written 
in pure English, in which he often follows classi- 
cal models, though superior to the English poems 
of Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in 
those composed in the Scottish dialect he is often 
very successful. He was in geiieraJ, however, less 
happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his nmse. 
As he sjient the greater part of his life in Edin- 
burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the inter- 
vals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems 
are chiefly founded on the incidents of a town 
life, which, though they are susceptible of hu- 
mour, do not admit of those delineations of sce- 
nery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry 
of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the 
fancy and interest the heai-t. The town-eclogues 
of Fergusson, if we may so denominate them, are, 
however, faithful to nature, and often distinguish- 
ed by a very happy vein of humour. His poems 
entitled The Daft Days, The King's Birth-day in 
Edinburgh, Ldth Races, and The Hallow-fair, will 
justify this character. In these, particularly in 
the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as 
Ramsay had done before him. His Address to the 
Tron-Kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appre- 
ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless effu- 

* §ce The Morning Intervietv, fee. 



sions of an iri"egular, tliough amiable young man, 
wbo wrote for ilie periodical papers of the d:(), 
and who died in early youth. Had his life been 
proloagt.d under ]iap]>ier circumstances of for- 
tune, he would probably have risin to much higher 
reputation. He might have excelled in rural 
poetry ; for though his professed pastorals on tlie 
established Sicilian model, are stale and uninte- 
resting, The Farmer''s Ingle*, wliich may be ca)u- 
sidered asu Scottish pastoral, is the happiest of all 
his productions, and certainly was iJie archetype 
of the Colter's Saturday Nig/u. Fergusson, and 
more especially Burns, have shown, that the cha- 
racter and maimers of the peasantry of ScotiantI, 
of the present limes, are as well adapted to poe- 
try, as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of 
Christis Kirk of the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whcnn, as 
he himself informs us, ne had " frequently in his 
eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame, than to servile imitationt." His descrip- 
tive powers, whether the objects on which they 
are employed be comic or serious, aniraate or in- 
animate, are of the highest order. A superiority 
of this kind, is essential to every si)ecies of poeti- 
cal excellence. In one of his earlier poems, his 
plan seems to inculcate a lesson of contentment on 
the lower classes of society, by showing that their 
superiors are neither much better nor happier 
than themselves ; and this he chuses to execute 
in the form of a dialogue between two dogs. He 
introduces this dialogue by an account of the 
l)erson8 and characters of the speakers. The first, 
whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog of condition : 

" His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is, however, full cf 
condescension. 

" At kirk or market, mill or siniddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddle. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan^t on stanes 011' hillocks wi' him." 

The other, Ltiath, is a " ploughman's collie," but 
a cur of a good heart, and a sound understanding. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaivcie tail, we' npward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a szvirl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineated. 
Their gambols before they sit down to moralize, 
are described with an equal degree of happiness ; 
and through the whole dialogue, the character, as 
well as the difFtrent condition of the two spea- 
kers, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in 
which he enumerates the comforts of the poor, 

* The farmer's fire-side. 

t Sec Appendix to Poems. 



04 



LIFE OF 



gives the following account of tlieir merriment on 
the first day of the year. 

" That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling' ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntiii pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin croiise, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit ivi' them.''^ 

Of all the animals who have moralized on hu- 
man affairs since the days of /Esop, the dog seems 
Tiest entitled to this privilege, as well from his su- 
perior sagacity, as from his being more than any 
©ther the friend and associate of man. The dogs 
of Burns, excepting in their talent for moralizing, 
are downright dogs ; and not like the horses of 
Swift, or the Hmd and Panther of Dryden, men 
in the shape of brutes. It is this circumstance 
that heightens the humour of the dialogue. The 
*' twa dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, 
and the contrast between tlieir foi-m and charac- 
ter as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the impres- 
sion of the poet's satire. Though, in this poem, 
the chief excellence may be considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- 
position ; the happiest powers of description, and 
the deepest insight into the human heart*. It is 
seldom, lu)wever, that the humour of Bums ap- 
I>ears in so simple a form. The liveliness of his 
sensibility frequently impels him to introduce into 
subjects of humour, emotions of tenderness or of 
pity, and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes 
carried on to exeit the higher powers of imagina- 
tion. In such instances he leaves the society of 
Ramsay and of Fei-gusson, and associates himself 
with the masters of English poetry, whose lan- 
guage he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, exam- 
jiles may be found in the Death and Dying Words 
of poor Maillie, in the Auld Farmer''s Ne-iu-Tear\- 
Morning Salutation to his Mare Maggie, and in 
many of his other poems. The praise of whisky 
is a favourite subject with Burns. To this he de- 
dicates his poem of Scotch Drinkf. After men- 

* When this poem first appeared, it was thought 
by some very surprisi})g, that a peasant, who had 
not had an opportunity of associating even with 
a simple gentKnian, should have been able to 
pourtray the character of high-life with such 
accuracy. And w hen it was recollected that he had 
probably been at the races of Ayr, where nobility 
as well as gentry ai-e to be seen, it was concluded 
that the i-ace-ground had been the field of his ob- 
servation. This was sagacious enough— but it did 
not require such instruction to inform Bui'ns, 
that human nature is essentially the same in the 
high and the low ; and a genius which compre- 
hends the human mind, easily co)nprehends the 
accidental varieties introduced by situation. 

t See Poems. 



tioning its cheering influence in a variety of situ- 
ations, he describes, with singular liveliness and 
power of fancy, its stimulating eftects on the 
blacksmith working at his forge. 

" Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The br: wnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

On another occasion*, chusing to exalt whisky- 
above wine, he introduces a comparison between 
the natives of more genial climes, to whom the 
\inti furnishes their beverage, and his own coun- 
trymen, who drink the spirit of malt. The de- 
scription of the Scotsman is humorous. 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gillf, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagina* 
tion of the poet. He goes on thus : 

" Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease liim ; 
Death comes— wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breatliin lea'es him 

In faint huzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and con- 
cludes the poem with the following most laugha- 
ble, but most irreverent apostrophe, 

" Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and 7vhisky gang thegither, 

Tak aff your dram !" 

Of this union of humour with the higher powd- 
ers of imagination, instances may be found in the 
poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, and in 
almost every stanza of the Address to the Dell, 
one of the happiest of his productions. After re- 
proacliing this terrible being with all his " do- 
ings" and misdeeds, in the course of which he 
passes through a series of Scottish superstitions, 
and rises at times into a high strain of poetry, he 
concludes this address, delivered in a tone of gi-eat 
familiarity, not altogether unmLxed with appre- 
hension, in the following words. 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben .' 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken— 

* The Author^s earnest Cry and Prayer to tfie- 
Scotch Representatives in Parliament. 
t Of wliisky. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



65 



Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for youi- sake I" 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily in- 
termixed, that it is impossible to say which pre- 
ponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the Cause- 
ivay and the Plainstones* of Edinburgh. This 
probably suggested to Burns Iiis dialogue between 
the Old and the New Bridge over the river Ayrf. 
The nature of such subjects requires that they 
shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson has 
attempted notliing be)ojid this. Though the 
Causeway and the Plainstones talk togt-ther, no 
attempt is made to personify the si)eakers. A 
" cadief heard the conversation, and i-eported it 
to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the " Brigs of Ayr,'''' 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on wliich it occurred, is related with 
great circumstantiality. The poet, " pressed by 
care," or " inspired by whim," had left his bed, 
in the town of Ajr, and wandered out alone in 
the darkness and solitude of a winter night, to 
the mouth of the river, where the stillness was 
interrupted only by the rushing sound of the in- 
flux of the tide. It was after midniglit. The 
dungeon-clock§ had struck two, and the sound 
had been rei)eated by Wallace-Tower§. All else 
was hushed. The moon shon« brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept gently-crusting o'er the glittering stream." 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, 
the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, 
whose form and attire he describes, and whose 
conversation with each other he rehearses. These 
genii enter into a comparison of the respective 
edifices over which they preside, and afterwards, 
as is usual between the old and young, compare 
modern characters and manners with those of past 
times. They differ, as may be expected, and 
taunt and scold each other in broad Scotch. This 
conversation, which is certainly humorous, may 
be considered as the proper business of the poem. 
As the debate runs high, and threatens serious 
consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a 
new scene of wonders. 



all before their sight 



A fairy train appeared in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennoblijig bards heroic ditties sung." 



* The middle of the street, and the side-ii'aij. 
t The Brigs of Ayr. t A messenger. 

§ The two steeples of Ayr. 



" The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crowned, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical be- 
ings, among whom are the four Seasons, Rural 
Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, cajne from the tow 'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measun s trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Teace, crowned with a hazel- 
wreath. 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our si)rites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and may 
serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In parti- 
cular, it affords a striking instance of his being 
carried beyond his original purpose by the powers 
of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and 
Caiiseyvay contrast the chai'acters of the different 
persons who walked upon them. Burns probably 
conceived that, by a dialogue between the Old 
and New Bridge, he might form a humorous con- 
trast between ajicientand inodtrn manners in the 
town of Ayr. Such a dialogue could only be sup- 
posed to pass in the stillness of night, and this 
led our poet into a description of a midnight 
scene, m hich excited, in a high degree, the powers 
of his imagination. During the whole dialogue 
the scenery is present to his fancy, and at It ngth 
it suggests to him a fairy dance of aerial beings, 
under the beams of the moon, by which the 
wrath of the genii of the Brigs of Ayr is ap- 
peased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this i)oem 
are, it is not an incongruity that displeases, and 
we have only to regret that the poet did not be- 
stow a little pains in making the- figures more 
correct, and in smoothing the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 
cluded his Dedication to'G. H., esq. discover, like 
his other writings, the powers of a superior un- 
derstanding. They display deep insight into hu- 
man nature, a gay and happy strain of reflection, 
great independence of sentiment, and generosity 
of heart. It is to be regretted, that in his Holy 
Fair, and in some of his other poems, his liumour 
degenerates into persoiial satire, aiid that it is not; 
suflicieiitly guarded in other respects. 1 he Hal- 
lorveen of Burns is free from evtr> objection of 
this sort. It is interesting not merely from its 
humorous description of manmrs. but as it re- 
cords the spells and charms used on the celebra- 
tion of a festival, now even ia Scotlaiul falling 
into neglect, but which was oiice observed over 
th gre.iter part of Br>iaiu a; d Irtlaicl''. Th-ise 

* lii lre».i ..; .: .3 stul oeicbratcd. It is not 
quite in disuse in Wales. 
I 



66 



LIFE OF 



cliarms arc supposed to afford an insight into fu- 
turity, especially on the subject of mr.rriag-e, the 
most interestiig event of rural life. In the Hal- 
loiveen, a female, in perlbrining one of the spells, 
has occasion to go out by moon-light, to dip her 
shift-sleeve into a stream running toivards the 
south*. It was not necessary for Burns to give 
a description of this stream. But it was the cha- 
racter of his ardent mind, to pour forth not mi re- 
ly «hat the occasion required, but what it admit- 
ted ; and the temptation to describe so beautiful 
a natural object by moon-light, was not to be re- 
sisted— 

" Whyles owre a linn the buniie plays 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
"VVh} les round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wicl it dimpl't; 
"Wh)Ks glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bicki ring, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Beneath the spreading hazle, 

Unseen that night."' 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect will 
allow this to be one of the finest instances of 
descrii)tion, which the records of poetry afford. 
Though of a very different nature, it may be 
conpared, ill point of excellence, with Thomson's 
description ol a river swollen by the rains of win- 
ter, bui-sting through the streights that confine its 
torrent, " boiling, wheeling, foaming, and thun- 
dering alongt." 

In pastoi'al, or, to speak more correctly, in ru- 
ral poetry, of a serious nature, Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind, and using 
less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
he becomes more generally intelligible. It is dif- 
ficult to decide whether the Add) ess to a Mouse 
ii-hose nest rras turned up 7vith the J-iloughi, should 
be considered as serious or comic. Be this as it 
may, the poem is one of the happitsi, and most 
finished of his productions. If we sn.Ue at the 
" bickering brattle" of this little flying animal, it 
is a smile of tends niess and pity. The descriptive 
part is admirable ; the moral reflections beautiful, 
and arising directly out of the occasion ; and in 
the conclusion, there is a deep melanchol), a sen- 
timent of doubt and dread, that rises to the sub- 
lime. The Address to a MoiiJitain Daistj, turned 
dorvn rvith the tAoiigh^, is a poem of the sar.je na- 
ture, though somewhat inferior in poii:t of origi- 
Tiality, as well as in the interest produced. To 
extract out of incidents so comuion, and seemi);g- 
ly so trivial as tlu se, so fine a train of sentiment 
and imager), is the surest proof, as well as the 
most brilliant triumph, of original genius. The 
Vision, iii two cantos, from which a beautiful ex- 
tract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th num- 
ber of the Louiiger, is a potm of gTei>t and vari- 
ous excellence. The opci.ing, in whi- h the poet 
describes his own state of mind, retirn g in the 
evtiii)>g, wearied from the labours of the day, to 
raoralize on his conduct and prospiess, is truly 



* See Poems, 
i See Poems. 



f See Thomsons Winter, 
§ Ibid. 



interesting. The chamber, if we may so term itj 
in which he sits down to muse, is an exquisite 
painting. 

" There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek 

I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 

That filled, Avi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld, clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination, the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, re- 
quired the powers of Burns— he, however, suc- 
ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, atti- 
tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual 
beings, are distinctly pourtrayed. To the paint- 
ing on her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of lus native country, some exceptions 
may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup 
of Thyrsis*, and the shield of Achilles, is too 
much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
jects represented upon it, are scarcely admissible 
according to the principles of design. The gene- 
rous temperament of Burns, led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he enlarged 
the number of figures originally ii»troduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was attach- 
ed by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or patri- 
otism. The second duan or canto of tliis poem, 
in vhich Coila describes her own nature and oc- 
cupations, particularly h.r superintendence of his 
infant genius, and in which site reconciles him to 
the character of a bard, is an elevated and solemn 
strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, except- 
ing the harmony of numbers, with the higher pro- 
ductions of tlie English muse. The concluding 
stanza, compart d with that already quoted, will 
show to what a height Burns rises in this poem, 
from the point at which he set out. 

" And ivear thou this— she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems, Burns has exhibited the pic- 
ture of a mirid under the deep impressioi»s of real 
sorrow. Ihe Lament, the ^Ode to Ruin, Despon- 
dency, and U inter, a dirge, are of this character. 
In the first of these poems, the eighth stanza, 
which describes a sleepless niglit from anguish of 
niind, is particularly striking. Burns often in- 
dulged in those melancholy \news of the nature 
and condition of man, which are so congenial to 
the temperament of sensibility. The poem enti- 
tled, Ma)i ivas made to j\ioui7i, afibrds an instance 
of this kind, and the Winter Nightf, is of the 
same dtscription. This last is highly cliav^cteris- 
lic. both ol" the temper of mind, and of the condi- 
tion of Burns. It begins with a description of a 

* See the first Idyllium of Theocritus. 
t See Poems. 



ROBERT BURK3. 



§2^ 



dreadful storm on a night in winter. Tlie poet 
vepri'seiits hiiusolf as lying; in bfd, and listi'ning 
to its howling. In this situation he naturally 
turns his thoughts to the our it-* cattle, and the 
s/llijf sheep, exposed to all the violence of the 
tempest. Having lamented their fate, he proceeds 
in the following manner. 

" Ilk happing bird — wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ?" 

Other refketions of the s-.'.me nature occur to 
his mind ; and, as the midnight mooji, " muffled 
with clouds," casts her dreary light on his win- 
dow, thoughts of a darker and more melancholy 
nature crowd upon him. In this state of mind, 
he hears a voice pouring through the gloom a so- 
lemn and plaintive strain of reflection. The 
mourner compares the fury of the elemejits with 
that of man to his brother man, and finds the 
former light in the balance. 

" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's goary hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land."— 

He pursues this train of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of which, he 
introduces the following animated apostrophe. 

" O ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but Mhat yourselves create, 
Think, for a momt nt, on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Streteh'd on his straw he lays him down to 
sleep. 
While tlu-o' the ragged roof and ehinky wall. 

Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty 
heap !" 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The Cot- 
ter''s Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to the 
first rank. The Farmer''s Ingle of Feigusson evi- 
dently suggested the plan of this poem, as has al- 
ready been mentioned ; but, after the plan was 
formed, Burns trusted entirely to his own powers 
for the execution. Fei'gusson's poem* is certainly 
very beautiful. It has all the charms which de- 
pend on rural characters and manners happily 
pourtrayed, and exhibited under circumstances 
highly grateful to the imaginatiojj. The Far- 
mer's Ingle begins with describing the return of 
evening. The toils of the day are over, and the 

* Ourie, out-lying. Ourie cattle, cattle that 
are unhoused all winter. 

t SUiy is in this, as in other places, a term of 
('ompassion and endearmsHt. 



farmer retires to his comfortable fire-side. The 
reception which he and his men-servauls receive 
from the careful house-wife, is pleasingly des- 
cribed. Afti r their supper is over, they begin to 
talk on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae oh, 
How Jock w oo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Mariont for a bastar, son, 
Upo' the cutry-stool was forc> d to ride. 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The " gudame" is next introduced as forming 
a circle round the fire, in the niiJst of iier grand- 
cliihlren, and while she spuis from the rock, and 
the spindle plays on her " russet lap," she is re- 
lating to the young ones, tales of witches and 
ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mount. 
Ye in life's brawest spring- wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fa.icies a' return. 

And diin our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The minds aye cradled w hen the grave is near." 

In the mean time the fiirmer, wearied with the 
fatigues of the day, stretches hiaiself at length on 
the sctrle, a sort of rustic couch which extends on 
one side of the fire, and the eat and house-dog 
leap upon it to recei>'e l^is caresses. Here, rest- 
ing at his ease, he g-ives his directions to his men- 
servants for the succeeding day. The house-wife 
follows his <:-xaiuple, and gives her orders to the 
maidens. By dt gives the oil in the cruise begins 
to fail ; the fire runs low ; sleep steals on this 
rustic group ; and they move oif to enjoy their 
peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by be- 
stowing his blessing on tlve " husbandman and all 
his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pastQ>- 
ral. It jjossesses evei-y tiling required in this 
species of composition. We might have perhaps 
said, every thing that it admits, had not Burns 
written his Cotter''s Sattirday Night. 

The cottager, returaing from his labours, has 
no servants to accompany him, to partake of his 
fare, or to receive his instructions. The cirelu 
which he joins, is composed of Ills wife and chil- 
dren onJy ; and, if it admits of less variety, it af- 
fords an opportunity for representii:g scenes that 
more strongly interest the aitections. The younger 
children running to meet him, and claml)ering 
round his knee ; the elder, returning from their- 
weekly labours with the neighbouring farmers, du- 
tifully depositing their little gains with their pa- 
rents, and receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions ; the incidents of the coiirtship of Jen- 
ny, their eldest daughter, " woman grown ;" are 
circumstances of the juost interesting kind, which 
are most hapj)ily delineated : and, after their fru- 
gal supj)er, the r presentatioii of these humble 
cottagers forming a wider circle round their 
hearth, and uniting in the worship of God, is a 
l)icture th. most deeply ad'tcting of any which 
tlie rural muse has ever presented to the view. 
Bujui -was adniirabiy adapted to this delineation. 
Like ail iHCn of genius, he was of tlio tempera- 



68 . 



LIFE Of 



ment of devotion, and the powers of memory co- 
operated, in this instance, with the sensibility of 
his heart, and the fervour of his imagination*. 
The Cotter''s Saturday Night is tender and jnoi-i-1, 
it is soltmn and devotional, and rises at length 
into a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which 
modern pot try has not surpassed. The nobk sen- 
timents of patriotism with which it concludes, cor- 
respond witli the rest of the poem. In no age or 
country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. 
It is to be regretted, that Burns did not employ 
his genius on other subjects of the same nature, 
which the manners and customs of the Scottish 
peasantry would liave amply supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of 
pleasure which it bestow s ; it sinks deeply into 
the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other 
human means, for giving permanence to the 
scenes and the chai'acters it so exquisitely de- 
scribest. 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to offer 
a few observatioiiis on the lyric productions of 
Burns. His compositions of this kind are chiefly 
songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, and al- 
ways after the model of the Scottish songs, on 
the general character and moral influence of 
vhich, some observations have already been of- 
fercdj. We may hazard a few more particular 
remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland, it 
is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where imi- 
tated them, a circumstance to be regretted, since, 
in tliis species of composition, from its admitting 
the more terrible, as well as the softer graces of 
poetry, he was eminently qualified to have ex- 
celled. The Scottish songs w hich served as a mo- 
del to Burns, are almost without exception pasto- 
ral, or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, 
frequently treat of a rustic courtship, or a coun- 
try wedding ; or they describe the differences of 
opinion which arise in married life. Burns has 
imitated this species, and surpassed his models. 
The song beginniiig, " Husband, husband, cease 
your strife§," may be cited in support of this ob- 
servation ||. His other comic songs are of equal 
merit. In the rui-al songs of Scotland, whether 
humorous or tender, the sentiments are given to 
particular characters, and, verj- generally, the in- 
cidents are refen-ed to particular scenery. This 

* The reader will recollect that the Cotter was 
Bums' father. See h. 19. 

t See Appendix, No. II. Nate D. 

% See p. 4. 

§ See Correspondence ivith Mr. Tliomson, No. 
XLIX. 

II The dialogues between husbands and their 
wivts which form the subjects of the Scottish 
songs, are almost all ludicrous and satirical, and 
in these contests the lady is generally victorious. 
From the collections of Mr. Pinkerton, we find 
that the comic muse of Scotland delighted in 
such representations from vei-y early times, in 
her rude dramatic efforts, as well as in her rustic 
iougs# 



last circumstance may he considered as the dis- 
tinguishing feature of the Scottish songs, and on 
it a considerable part of their attraction depends. 
Oa all occasions, the sentiments, of whatever na- 
ture, are delivered in the character of the person 
principally interested. If love be described, it is 
not as it is obsirrved, but as it is felt; and the 
passion is delineated under a particular aspect. 
Nsither is it the fiercer impulses of desire that 
are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, 
the model of so many modern songs ; but those 
gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, 
which do not entirely absorb the lover, but per- 
mit hijn to associate his emotions with the charms 
of external nature, and breathe the accents of pu- 
rity and innocence, as well as of love. In these 
respects the love-songs of Scotland are honourably- 
distinguished from the most admired classical com- 
positions of the same kind ; and by such associa- 
tions a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to 
the representation of tliis passion, which are not 
to be found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or 
perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love- 
songs of Scotland describe scenes of rural court- 
ship ; many may be considered as invocations 
from lovers to their mistresses. On such occa- 
sions, a degree of interest and reality is given to 
the sentiments, by the spot destined to these hap- 
py interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on 
the Banks of Etrick ; the nymphs ai-e invoked to 
wander among the wilds of Roslin, or the ivoods 
of Inve7-may. Nor is the spot merely pointed 
out ; the scenery is often described as w ell as the 
characters, so as to present a complete picture to 
the fancy*. Thus the maxun of Horace, ut pic- 

* One or two examples may illustrate this ob- 
servation. A Scottish song, written about a hun" 
dred years ago, begins thus : 

" On Etrick banks, on a summer's night, 
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 

I met my lassie, braw and tight. 
Come wading barefoot a' her lane : 

My heart g^rew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck. 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lang, 

My words they were na mony feck*."" 

The lover, who is a Highlander, g^es on to re- 
late the language he employed with this Lowland 
maid to win her heart, and to persuade her to fly 
with him to the Highland hills, there to share his 
fortune. The sentiments are in themselves beau- 
tiful. But we feel them with double force, 
while we conceive that they were addressed by a 
lover to Ids mistress, whom he met all alone, on 
a summer's evening, by the banks of a beautiful 
stream, which some of us have actually seen, and 
which all of us can paint to our imagination. Let 
us take another example. It is iioav a nymph that 
speaks. Hear how she expi'esses herself. 



Ntt mony fock— not very many. 



JIOBERT BURNS. 



«]9 



tiire poesis^ is faithfully observed by these rustic 
bards, wlio are guided by the same impulse of na- 
ture and sensibility whiclj influenced tlie father 
of epic poetry, on whose example the precept of 
the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this 
means, tiie imagination is employed to interest the 
feelings. When we do not conceive distinctly, we 
do not sympathize deeply in any human affec- 
tion ; and we conceive nothing in the abstract. 
Abstraction, so useful in morals, and so essential 
in science, must be abandoned when tlie heart is 
to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of elo- 
quence. The bards of a ruder condition of society, 
paijit individual objects ; and hence, among- other 
causes, the easy access they obtain to the heart. 
Generalization is the vice of poets whose learn- 
ing overpowers their genius ; of poets of a refined 
and scientific age. 

The di-amatic style which prevails so much in 
the Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly to 
the interest they excite, also shows that they have 
originated among a people in the earlier stages of 
societ}'. Where this form of composition appears 
in songs of a modern date, it indicates that they 
have been written after the ancient model*. 

'* How blythe each morn was I to see 

My swain come o'er the hill ! 
He skipt the bum, and fiew to me, 

I met hiiu with gude will." 

Here is another pictui*e drawn by the pencil of 
nature. We see a shepherdess standing by the 
side of a brook, watching her lover as he descends 
the opposite hill. He bounds lightly along ; he 
approaches nearer and nearer ; he leaps the bi-ook, 
and flies into her arms. In the recollection of 
these circumstances, the surrounding scenery be- 
comes endeared to the fair mourner, and she 
bursts into the following exclamation. 

" O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
The broom of the Cowden-Knowes J 

I wish I were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of tliis happy inter- 
view is pointed out, and the picture is compl. ted. 

* That the dramatic form of writing characte- 
rizes the productions of an early, or, w hat amounts 
to the same thing, of a rude stage of society, may 
be illustrated by a reference to the most ancient 
compositions that we know of, the Hebrew scrip- 
tures and the writings of Homer. The form of 
dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish ballads even 
in narration, whenever the situations described be- 
come interesting. This sometimes produces a very 
striking eftect, of which an instance may be given 
from the ballad of Eduni o' Coi-tlon,a composition 
apparently of the sixteenth century. The story of 
the ballad is shortly this.— The castle of Rliodes , in 
the absence of its lord, is attacked by the robber 
Edom o' Gordon. The lady stands on her defence, 
beats otf the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who 
in his rage orders the castle to be set on fire. That 
his oi-ders are carried into effect, we learn from 
Jhe expostulation of the lady, who is represented 



The Scottish songs are of vei'y unequal poetical 
merit, and this inequality often extends to tlie dif- 
ferent parts of the same song. Those that are hu- 
morous, or characteristic of manners, have, in 
general, the merit of copying natui'e ; those tiiat 
are serious, are tender, j^nd often sweetly inteivst* 
ing, but seldom exhiliit high powers of imagina- 
tion, which indeed do not easily find a place iu 
this species of composition. The alliance of the 
words of the Scottish songs with the music, has in 
some instances given to the former a popularity, 
whicli otherwise they would not have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music of 
these songs, with the more beautiful pans of the 
scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same ef- 
fect. It has given them not merely popularity, 
but permanence ; it has imparted to the works of 
man, some portion of the durability of tlie works 
of nature. If, from our imjierfect experience of 
the past, we may judge with any confidence re- 
specting the future, songs of this description are, 
of all others, least likely to die. In the chang'es of 
language they may no doubt suffer change ; but 
the associated strain of sentiment and of music, 
will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps 
down the vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom 
waves on the Cowden-Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing-, 
were not very successful. His habitual inattention 
to the exactness of rhymes, and to the harmony of 
numbers, arising probably from the modt^ls on 
which his vei-sification was formed, were faults 
likely to appear to more disadvantage in this spe- 
cies of composition, than in any otlier ; and we may 
also remark, that the strength of his imagination, 
and the exuberance of his sensibility, were with 
difficulty restrained within the limits of gentle- 
ness, delicacy, and tenderness, which seem to bft 
assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Burns 
w as better adapted by nature for following, in such 
compositions, the model of the Gi-ecian, than of 
the Scottish muse. By study and practice, he liow- 
ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier 
songs, there is some ruggedness ; but this gradually 
disappears in his successive efforts ; and some of 

as standing on the battlements, and remonstrating 
on this barbarity. She is interrupted— 

O then bespak hir little son, 

Sate on his nourice' knee ; 
Says, ' mither dear, gi' owre this house, 

For the reek it siaiihers me.' 
" I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind 

To blaw the reek frac thee." 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
and the dramatic form which prevails so generally 
in them, probably arises from their being the de- 
scendants and successors of the ancient ballads. 
In the beautiful modern song of Mary of Cnstle- 
Cary, the dramatic form has a very haj)py effVet. 
The same may be said of iJunald and Flora, and 
Cunie under rwj plaidic, by the same author. Mi-. 
Mucuiel. 



70 



LIFE OF 



his latter eempositions of tliis kind, may be com- 
pared, in polish, d dclicaty, with the finest songs in 
our language, while, in the eloquence of sensibility, 
they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the model he followed 
and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the great- 
er part amatory ; and the beauties of rural nature 
are every where associated with the passions and 
emotions of the mind. Disdaiiiing to copy the 
vorks of others, he has not, like some poets of 
great name, £)dmitted into his descriptions exotic 
imagery. Tlie landscapes he has painted, and the 
objects with which they are embellished, are, in 
every single instance, such as are to be found in 
his own country. In a mountainous region, espe- 
cially when it is comparatively rude and naked, 
the most beautiful scenery will always be found in 
the valleys, and on the banks of the wooded streams. 
Such scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close 
of a summer-day. As we advance northwards, the 
number of the days of summer indeed diminishes ; 
but from this cause, as well as from the mildness 
of the temperature, the attraction of the season 
increases, and the summer-night becomes still more 
heautiful. The greater obliquity of the sun's path 
on the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of 
twilight to the midnight hours, and the shades of 
the evening seem to mingle with the morning's 
dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as may be ex- 
pected, associate in their songs the expressions of 
passion, with the most beautiful of their scenery, 
in the faii-est season of the year, and generally in 
those hours of the evening when the beauties of 
nature are most interesting*. 

* A lady, of M-hose genius the editor entertains 
high admiration (Mrs. Barbauld), has fallen into 
an error in this respect. In lier prefatoi-y address 
to the woi-ks of Collins speaking of the natural 
objects that may be employed to give interest to 
the desciiptions of passion, she observes, " they 
present an inexhaustible variety, from the Song 
of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cin- 
namon, to the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose 
damsels carry thtir milking pails through the frosts 
and snows of thtir less genial, but not less pastoral 
countrj." The damsels of Ramsay do not walk iu 
the midst of frost and snow.— Almost all the scenes 
of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in the open air, 
amidst beautiful natural objects, and at the most 
genial season of the year. Ramsay introduces all 
his acts with a prefatory description to assure us 
of this. The fault of the chmate of Britain, is not 
that it does not aHibrd us the beauties of summer, 
hut that the season of such beauties is compara- 
tively short, and even uncertain. There are days 
and nights, even in the northern division of the 
island, which equal, or perhaps surpass, what are 
to be found in the latitude of Sicily or of Greece. 
Buchanan, When he wrote his exquisite ode to 
May, felt the charm as well as the' transientness of 
these happy days. 

Salve fugacis gloria seculi, 
Sajve secunda digna dies nota, 
Salve vestustae vitai imago, 
Et specimen venientis Mv'i I 



To all these adventitious -cirenmstances, on 
which so much of the eift-Ct of poetry depends, 
grtat attention is paid by Burns. There is scarcely 
a single song of his, in w hich particular scenery is 
not described, or allusions made to natural objects, 
remaikable for beauty or interest ; and though his 
descriptions are not so full as are sometimes met 
with in the older Scottish songs, they are in the 
highest degree appropriate and interesting. In- 
stances in proof of this might be quoted from the 
Lea-Rig*, Highland Martj*, the Sutdier's Return*. 
Lugan Water*; from that beautiful pastoral Bon- 
nie Jean*, and a great number of others. Occa- 
sionally the force of this genius carries Mm beyond 
the usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the na- 
tural objecis introduced, have more of the charac- 
ter of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- 
ticed by Mr. Symet, and many others might be 
adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar i 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

'Till grief my -eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake morej." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a win- 
ter night, the " wan moon" is described as " set- 
ting behind the white waves§ ;" in another " the 
storms" are apostrophized, and commanded to " rest 
in the cave of their slumbers ||." On several occa- 
sions, the genius of Burns lo.ses sight entirely of 
ins archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform 
sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in Liber- 
tie, a Vii-ion**, and in his two war-songs, Bruce to 
his Troopsff, and the Song of DeathW. These 
last are of a description of which we have no other 
in our language. The martial soiigs of our nation, 
are not military, but naval. If we were to seek a 
comparison of these songs of Burns, with others of 
a similar nature, we must have recourse to the po- 
etry of ancient Greece, or of modem Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions the poetry 
equals, and sometimes surpasses the music. He 
has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country. 
Many of her rivers and mountains, formerly un- 
known to the muse, are now consecrated by his 
immortal verse. The Doou, the Lugar, the Ayr, 
the Nith, and the Clude:.— will in future, like the 
Yarrow, the Tweed, a),d the Tay, be coj.sidered as 
classic streams, and their borders will be trod witU 
new and suptfrior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of Dum- 
fries. Influenced perhaps by habits formed in i 
early life, he usually composid while walking in i 
the open air. When engaged in writing these soi^gs, 



* See Correspondence with Mr. Thomson. 

t See^. 46 of this volume. 

t See Correspondence with Mr. Thomson. 

§ Ibid. II Ibid. 

** See Poems. 

it See Correspondence with Mr. Thomson. 

tt See/>. 47 ©f this Tohune. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



his favourite walks were on the banks of the Nith, 
or of the Cluden, -particularly near the ruins of 
liincluilen Abbey ; and this beautiful scenery he 
has very happily described under various aspects, 
as it appears during the softness and serenity of 
evening, and during the stillness and solenmity of 
the moon-light night*. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated to 
influence the moi-als, as well as the happiness of 
a people, as those popular vers s which are asso- 
ciated with national airs, and which, being learnt 
in the years of infancy, make a deep impression 
on the heart, before the evolution of the powers 
of the understanding. The compositions of Burns 
of this kind, now presented in a collected foi-ni to 
tlie world, make a most important addition to the 
popular songs of his nation. Like all his other 
writings, they exhibit independence of sentiment ; 
they are peculiarly calculated to inci'ease those 
ties which bind generous hearts to their native 
soil, and to the domestic circle of their infancy ; 
and to cherish those sensibilities, which, under due 
restriction, form the purest hajipiness of our na- 
ture. If in his unguarded moments he composed 
some songs on which this praise cannot be bestow- 
ed, let us hope that they will speedily be forgot- 
ten. In several instances, where Scottish airs were 
allied to words objectionable in point of delicacy, . 
Burns has substituted others of a purer character. 
On such occasions, without changing the subject, 
he has changed the sentiments. A proof of this 
may be seen in the air, John Andersoti my Joe, 
A»hich is now united to w ords that, breathe a strain 
of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral as 
it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more stiiking 
proof of the strength of Burns' genius, than the 
general circulation of his poems in England, not- 
withstanding the dialect in which the greater part 
are written, and which might be supposed to ren- 
der them here uncouth or obscure. In some in- 
stances he has used this dialect on subjects of a 
sublime nature ; but in generah he confines it to 
sentiments or description of a tender or humor- 
ous kind ; and, where he I'ises into elevation of 
thought, he assumes a purer English style. The 
singular faculty he possessed of mingling in the 
same poem, humorous sentiments and desci-ij)- 
tions, with imagery of a sublime and terrific na- 
ture, enabled him to use this variety of dialect on 
some occasions with striking effect. His poem of 
Tarn o' S/iantei; affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, to 
situations of the most awful and terrible kind. He 
is a musician that runs from the lowest to the 
highest of his keys, and the use of the Scottish 
dialect, enables him to add two additional notes to 
the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabitants 
of Sc(ytland of the superior ranks, to apjjroximate 
in their speech to the pure English standard ; and 
this has made it difficult to write in the Scottish 
dialect, without' exciting in them some feelings of 

* See Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, No. 
liVI. and Poems, 



disgust, which in England are scarcely felt. An 
Englishman who understands the meaning of the 
Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on certain 
subjects, he is perhaps pleased, with the rustic dia- 
lect, as he may be with the Doric Greek of The* 
ocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own country, 
if a man of education, and more especially if a li- 
terary character, has banished such words from 
his writings, and has attempted to banish them 
from his speech ; and being accustomed to hear 
them from the vulgar daily, does not easily admit 
of their use in poetry, which requires a style ele- 
vated and ornamental. A dislike of this kind is, 
however, accidental, not natural. It is of the spe- 
cies of disgust which we feel at seeing a female 
of high birth, in the dress of a rustic ; which, if 
she be really young and beautiful, a little habit 
will enable us to overcome. A lady who assumes 
such a dress, puts her beauty indeed to a severer 
trial. She rejects— she indeed opposes the influ- 
ence of fashion ; she possibly abandons the grace 
of elegant and flowing di'apery ; but her native 
charms remain, the more striking perhaps, because 
the less adorned ; and to these she trusts for fix- 
ing her empire on those aiTections over which fash- 
ion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new associa- 
tion arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- 
comes itself beautiful, and establishes a new fash- 
ion for the young and the gay. And when, in af- 
ter ages, the contemplative observer shall view 
her picture in the gallery that contains the por- 
traits of the beauties of successive centuries, each 
in the dress of her respective day, her drapery w ill 
not deviate more than that of her rivals, from the 
standard of his taste, and he will give the palm to 
he^ who excels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantrj' of 
liis country, and by them their native dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous class of the 
natives of Scotland of another description, it may 
also be considered as attractive in a different point 
of view. Estranged from their native soil, and 
spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their coun- 
try unites with the sentiments and the descriptions 
on which it is employed, to recal to their minds 
the interesting scenes of infancy and youth— to 
awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. 
Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen'^' 
cannot judge on this point for one hundred and 
fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen*. 

* These observations are excited by some re» 
marks of respectable correspondents of the de- 
scription alluded to. This calculation of the num- 
ber of Scotchmen living out of Scotland is not al- 
together arbitrarj-, and it is probably below the 
truth. It is in some degree founded on the i)ro- 
portion between the number of the sexes in Scot- 
land, as it ai)pears from the in^i^luable Statistics 
of Sir John Sinclair.— For Scotchmen of this de- 
scription more particularly. Bums seems to have 
written his song beginning, T/ic/r groves o' siveet 
myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it may be confi- 
dently predicted, will be sung with equal or supe- 
rior interest, on the banks of the Ganges or of the 
Mississippi, as on those of the Tay or the Tweed. 



72 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste 
of the public has been for some time reconciled. 
The dialect in question excels, as has already been 
observed, in the copiousness and exactness cf its 
terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral or ru- 
ral songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which is very 
generally approved. Neither does the regret seem 
well founded, which some persons of taste have 
expressed, that Bums used this dialect in so many 
other of his compositions. His declared purpose 
■was to paint the manners of rustic life among his 
" humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive, 
"that this could have been done with equal humour 
and effect, if he had not .-idopted their idiom. There 
are some indeed who will think the subject too 
low for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste, will 
find their delicacies consulted in many a polite and 
learned author ; let them not seek for gratifica- 
tion in the rough and \-igorous lines, in the un- 
bridled humour, or in the overpowering sensibility 
of tliis bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
would be no easy task. INIany persons, afterwards 
distinguished in literature, have been born in as 
humble a situation of life, but it would be diffi- 
cult to find any other, who, while earning his sub- 
sistence by daily labour, has written vex-ses which 
have attracted and i-etained universal attention, 
and which are likely to give the author a perma- 
nent and distinguished place among the followers 
of the muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is 
distinguished for ease, as well as energy ; and these 
are indications of the higher order of genius. The 



father of ejjic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as 
excelling in strength, another in swiftness— to form 
liis perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. 
Every si)ecies of intellectual superiority atbnits 
perhaps of a sijnilar arrangement. One writer ex- 
cels in force ; another in ease— he is superior to 
them both, in whom both these qualities are unit- 
ed. Of Homer himself it may be said, that, like his 
own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in mo- 
bility as well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his un- 
derstanding and in the sensibility of his heart ; and 
these will be found to infuse the living principle 
into all the works of genius which seem destined 
to immortality. His sensibility had an uncommon 
range. He was alive to every species of emotion. 
He is one of the few poets that can be mentioned, 
who have at once excelled in humour, in tender- 
ness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the 
ancients, and which in modern times is only due to 
Ariosto, to Shakespeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. 
To compare the wi-itings of this Scottish peasant, 
with the works of these giants in literature, might 
appear presumptuous ; yet it may be asserted, that 
he has displayed the foot of Hercules. How near 
he might have approached them, by proper cul- 
ture, Avith lengthened years, and under happier 
auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But, while 
we run over the melancholy stoiy of his life, it is 
impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of 
his fortune ; and, as we survey the records of his 
mind, it is easy to see, that out of such materials 
have been reared the fairest and the most durable 
•f the monuments ©f genius, 



( 73 ) 



A GREAT number of poems have been written 
«n the death of Burns, some of them of considerable 
poetical morit. To have subjoined all of them to 
the present edition, would have been to have en- 
larged it to anotlier volume at least ; and to have 
made a selection, would have been a task of con- 
siderable delicacy. 

The editor therefore presents one poem only 
«n this melancholy subject ; a poem which has not 



before appeared in print. It is from the pen of 
one wlio has sympathized deeply in the fate of 
Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its au- 
thor—the biographer of Lorenzo r/e' Medici. Of a 
person so wi 11 known, it is wholly unnecessary 
for the editor to speak ; and. if it wc re necessary, 
it would not be easy for him to find language that 
would adequately express his respect and his af- 
fection. 



REAR high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But ah i what pott now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard is dead 

'I'hat ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy stream may speed along, 
As bright tliy summer suns )nay glow, 

As gajiy charm thy feathery throng j 
But now, unheedtd is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild-harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. 

What tho' thy \Hgorous offspring rise, 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Tho" beauty in thy daughters' ejes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassion'd, fond, ajid free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ? 

Witli step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youtli wliy didst thou view ? 
For all tliy joys to him were dear, 

Ajid all his vows to thee were due; 
Nor greater bliss liis bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Tlian wlien thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chaunted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught; 
He lieard with joy the temptst rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought. 

Where wild flowers pour'd their rathe perfume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd ; 
His lin^bs inur'd to early toil. 

His days with early hardships trietl : 
And, more to mark tlie gloomy void. 

And bid hun feel his misery, 



Before Ins infant eyes would glide 
Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rtst. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanv.hile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And sooth'd liis kiigthen'd hours of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

—All ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

Wlien A-igorous health from labour springs 
And blajid contentment smooths the bed, 

And slei-j) his ready opiatt; brings ; 
And hoveling round on airy wings 

Float th^- light fonus of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round liim dance ; 
Let flattery sprt ad her viewless snare, 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
'Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 

He scorn the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze. 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point tliem t'voni the spar]- ling bowl ; 
And let the cart less moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfin'd. 
And confidence that spurns controul 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind: 

And lead his steps those Ijowers among. 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And fretd from each laborious strife^ 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 
With every impulse of delight, 

Bash I'rom his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 



C 7-4 ) 



And let despair, with wizard light, 
Disclose the yawning gulf below, 

And pour incessant on his sight 

Her specter'd ills and shapes of woe : 

And shew beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
In silent grief where droojis her head, 

The p:>rtner of his early joys ; 
And IvTt his infants' tender ci-ies 

His fond pareiital sueoour claim. 
And bid him hear in agoniet, 

A husband's and a father's name. 

'Xis done, the powerful charm succeeds • 
His high reluctant spirit bends ; 



In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 

An idiot laugh the welkin rends 
As genius thus degraded lies ; 

'Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 
That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

—Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread. 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath 'd the soothing strain. 



APPENDIX. 



No. I. 

Note A. See p. 2. 

THE importance of the national establishment 
«f parish schools in Scotland will justify a short 
account of the legislative ])rovisions respecting it, 
especially as the subject has escaped the notice of 
ail the historians. 

By an act of the king (James VI.) and privy 
council of the 10th of December, 1616, it was re- 
commended to tlie bisliops to eleale and travel with 
the heritors (landed proprietors) and inhabitants of 
the several parishes in their respective dioceses, 
towards the fixing- upon " some certain solid and 
sure course," for settling and entertaining a school 
in each parisli. This was ratified by a statute of 
Char. I. (the act 1633, chap. 5), which empowered 
the bisJiop, with the consent of the heritors of a 
parish, or of a majority of the inhabitants, if the 
]»eritors refused to attend the meeting, to assess 
every plough of laud (tliat is, every farm in pro- 
portion to the number of ploughs ujjon it) with a 
certain sum for establishing a school. Tliis was an 
ineffectual provision, as depending on the consent 
and pleasure of tJie heritors and inhabitants. There- 
fore a new order of tilings was introduced by Stat. 
1646, chap. 17, whieli obliges the heritors and min- 
ister of each parish to meet and assess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building a school- 
house, and to elect a school-master, and modify a 
salary for him in all time to come. The sahiry is 
ordered not to be under one hundred, nor above 
two hundred merks, that is, in our present sterling 
money, not under 5l. lis. 1.5d. nor above 111. 2s. 
3d.; and the assessment is to be laid on the land in 
the same proportion as it is rated for tlie support 
of the clergy, and as it regulates the payment of 
the land-tax. But in case the heritors of any par- 
ish, or the majority of them, should fail to dis- 
charge this duty, then the persons fonning what 
is called the Committee of Su/j/jIij of the county 
(consisting of the prjncip;)! landholders), oj- avij 
five of them, are authorized by the statute to im- 
pose the assessment instead of them, on the iv pre- 
sentation of the presbytery in which th. parish is 
situated. To secure the choice of a proper teach- 



er, the right of election of the heritors, by a sta- 
tute passed in 1693, clta/j. 22, is made subject to the 
review and controul of the presbytery of the dis- 
trict, who have the examination of the person pro- 
posed committed to tliem, both as to his qualifica- 
tions as a teacher, and as to his proper deporliiier.t 
in the office, when settled in it. The election of 
the heritors is therefoiv only a presentment of a 
person for the approbation of the presbytery, who, 
if they find him unfit, may declare his incapacity, 
and tlius oblige them to elect anew. So far is 
stated on unquestionable authority*. 

The legal salary of the school-master was not 
inconsiderable at the time it was fixed, but by the 
decrease in the value of money, it is now certainly 
inadequate to its object ; and it is painful to ob- 
serve that the landholdei's of Scotland resisted the 
humble application of the school-iiiasters to the 
legislature for its increase, a few years ago. Ihe 
numher of i)arishes in Scotland is 877 ; and if we 
allow the salary of a school-master in each to be, 
on an average, seven pounds sterling, the amount 
of the legal provision will be 61391. sterling. If we 
suppose the wages paid by the scholars to amount 
to twice this sum, which is probably beyond the 
truili, the total of the expenses among 1,526,492 
persons (the v.Iiole population of Scotland), of this 
most important establishment, will be 18,4171. But 
on this, as well as on other subjects respecting 
Scotland, accurate information may soon be ex- 
pected from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his 
Statistics, which will complete the immortal mon- 
ument he has reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the instruc- 
tion of the poor was soon felt, and by an act of 
the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is en- 
acted, " that of the moiues arising from the sale of 
tlie Scottish estates forfeited in the rebellion of 
1715, 20001. sti rling shall be converted into a cap- 
ital stock, the interest of which shall be laid out 
in erecting and maijttaining schools in the High- 
lands. The Society for pi-ojnigatiiig Ciiristian 
Knowledge, incorporat'd in 1709, have applied a 
large jiart of their fund for the same purpose. By 
their report, Isl May, 1795, the annual sum em- 



* Tlie authority of A. Frazor Tytler, and Da- 
vid Htrine, Esqrs. 



'6 



APPENDIX. No. I. 



Note A. 



ployed by them in supporting their schools in the 
Highlands and Islands, was 39131. 19s. lOd. in 
which are taught the ETiglish language, reading 
and writing, aiid the principles of religion. Tlie 
schools of the society ai-e additional to the leg-al 
schools, which, from the great extent of many of 
the Highland parishes, were found insufficient. 
Besides these established schools, the lower classes 
of people in Scotland, where the parishes are large, 
often combine together and establish private schools 
of their own, at one of which it was, that Burns 
received the principal part of his education. So 
convinced, indeed, are the poor people of Scotland, 
by experience, of the benefit of instruction to their 
children, that though they may often find it diffi- 
cult to feed and clothe them, some kind of school 
instruction they aliuost always procure them. 

The influence of the school-establishment of 
Scotland, on the peasantry of that country, seems 
to have decided by experience a question of legis- 
lation, of the utmost importance— whether a sys- 
tem of national instruction for the poor be favour- 
able to morals and good government. In the year 
1698, Fletcher of Saltoun declared as follows : 
" There are at this day in Scotland, two hundred 
thousand people begging from door to door. And 
though the number of them be perhaps double to 
what it was formerly, by reason of this present 
great distress (a famine then prevailed), yet in all 
times there have been about one hundred thousand 
of those vagabonds, who have lived without any 
regard or subjection either to the laws of the land, 
or even those of God and nature ; fathers incestu- 
ously accompanying with their own daughters, the 
son with the mother, aiid the brother witli the sis- 
ter." He goes on to say, that no magistrate ever 
could discover that they had ever been baptized, 
or in what way one in a hundred went out of the 
world. He accuses them as frequently guilty of 
robbery, and sometimes of murder. " In years of 
plenty," saj^s he, " jnany thousands of them meet 
together in the mountains, where they feast and 
riot for many days, and at country weddings, mar- 
kets, burials, and other public occasions, they are 
to be seen, both men and womei., perpetually 
dnink, cursing, blaspheming, and fighting togeth- 
er*." This high-minded stjitesman, of whom it is 
said by a contemporary, " that he would lose his 
life readily to save his country, and would not do 
a base thing to serve it," thought the evil so great, 
that he proposed as a remedy, the revival of do- 
mestic slaverj', accordirig to the practice of his 
adored republics in the classic ages ! A better re- 
medy has been found, whicli in the silent lapse of 
a century has proved effi^ctual. The statute of 1696, 
the noble legacy of tlie Scottish parliament to 
their country, began soon after this to operate ; 
and happily, as the minds of the poor received in- 
struction, the union opened new channels of in- 
dustry, and new fields of action to their view. 

At the present day, there is perhaps no country 
in Europe, in which, in proportion to its popula- 
tion, so small a number of crimes fall under the 
chastisement of the criminal law, as Scotland. We 
have the best authority for asserting, that on an 

* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo, 
London, 1737, />. 144. 



average of tliirty years preceding the year 1797, 
the executions in that division of the island, did 
not amount to six annually ; and one quarter ses- 
sions for the town of ^Manchester only, has sent, 
according to Jilr. Hume, more felons to the planta- 
tions, than all the judges of Scotland usually do 
in the space of a year*. It might appear invidi- 
ous to attempt a calculation of the many thousand 
individuals in Manchester and its vicinity, who can 
neither read nor write. A majority of those who 
suffer the punishment of death for their crimes, 
in every part of England, are, it is believed, iu 
this misei-able state of ignorance ! 

There is now a legal provision for parochial 
schools, or rather for a school in each of the dif- 
ferent townships into which the country is divided. 
in several of the northern states of North Ameri- 
ca. They are however of recent origin there, ex- 
cepting in New England, where they were esta- 
blished in the last century, probably about the same 
time as in Scotland, and by the same religious sect. 
In the protestant cantons of S witzerl.and, the pea- 
santry have the advantage of similar schools, 
though establislied and endowed in a different 
manner. Tliis is also the case in certain districts 
in England, particularly in the northern parts of 
Yorksiiire and of Lancashire, and in the counties 
of Westmoreland and Cumberland. 

A law proriding for the instruction of the poor, 
was passed by the parliament of Ireland ; but the 
fund was diverted frozn its purpose, and the mea- 
sure was entirely frustrated. Proh ptidor ! 

The similarity of character between the Swiss 
and the Scotch, and between the Scotch and the 
people of New England, can scarcely be overlook- 
ed. That it arises in a great measure from the 
similarity of tlieir institutions for instruction, can- 
not be questioned. It is no doubt increased by 
physical causes. With a superior degree of in- 
struction, each of these nations possesses a coun- 
try that may be siiid to be sterile, in the neigh- 
bourhood of countries comparatively rich. Hence, 
emigrations and the other effects on conduct and 
character, which such circumstances naturally pro- 
duce. This subject is in a high degree curious. 
The points of dissimilarity between these nations 
might be traced to thtir causes also, and the whole 
investigation would pei-haps admit of an approach 
to certainty in our conchisions, to which such in- 
quiries seldom Icp.d. How much superior in morals, 
in intellect, and in happiness, the peasantry of those 
parts of England are, who have opportunities of 
instruction, to the same class in other situations, 
those who inquire into the subject, will speedily 
discover. The peasantry of Westmoreland, and of 
the other districts mentioned above, if their phy- 
sical and moral qualities be taken together, are, 
in the opinion of the editor, superior to the pea- 
santry of any part of the island. 

Note B. See (). 2. 

It has been supposed tliat Scotland is less pop- 
ulous and less improved on account of tJiis ensi- 
gration ; but such conclusions are doubtful, if not 

* Hume's Comnu^ntaries on the Laws of Scot- 
land, Intrcil, p. 50. 



Note B. 



APPENDIX. No. I. 



77 



wholly fallacious. The principle of population acts 
in no country to the full extent of its !)o\ver : mar- 
riage is every where retai'dL'd beyot\il the period 
pointed out by nature, l)y the difliculty of sup- 
porting a family ; and this obstacle is greatest in 
long-settled communities. The cjuigr.ition of a 
part of a people, facilitates the marriage of the 
rest, by producing a relative increase in the means 
of subsistence. The arguments of Adam Smith 
for a free export of corn, are perhaps applicable 
with less exception to tlie free export of people. 
The more certain the vent, the greater the culti- 
vation of the soil. The subject has been well in- 
vestigated by Sir James Stewart, whose principles 
have been expanded and farther illustrated in a 
late truly philosophical Esmij on Population. In 
fact, Scotland has increased in tlie number of its 
inhabitants in the last forty years, as the Statistics 
of Sir John Smclair clearly prove, but not in the 
ratio that some had supposed. The extent of the 
emigration of tlie Scotch may be calculated with 
some degree of confidence from the proportionate 
number of the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that 
may be established pretty exactly, by an examina- 
tion of the invaluable Statistics already mentioned. 
If we suppose that there is an equal number of 
male as female natives of Scotland alive, sonie 
•ivhere or other, the excess by which the females 
exceed the males in their own country, may be 
considered to be equal to the number of Scots- 
men living out of Scotland. But though the males 
born in Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, and 
though some of the females emigrate as well as 
the males, this mode of calculating would iiroiia- 
bly make the number of expatriated Scotsmen, at 
any one time alive, greater than the truth. The 
unhealthy climates into which they emigrate, the 
hazardous services in which so many of theni en- 
gage, render the mean life of those who leave Scot- 
land (to speak in the language of calculators) not 
perhaps of half the value of the mean life ol" those 
who remain. 

Note C. See p. 5. 

In the pimishment of this offence, the church 
employed formerly the ann of the civil power. 
Duiiiig the r^ ign of James the Vlth (James the 
1st of England), criminal connexion between un- 
married persons was made the subject of a parti- 
cular statute (see Hume''s Commenfarles on the 
Lavjs of Scotland, vol. ii. p. 3.32), wliich, from its 
rigour, was never much enforced, and which has 
long fallen into disuse. Wlien, in the middle of 
the last century, tlu Puritans succeeded in the 
overthrow of the monarchy in both divisions of 
the islc.nd, foi'nication was a crime against which 
they directed their utmost zeal. It was made 
punishable with death in the second instance. 
{See Blackstone, b. iv. chap. 4. No, II.) Happily 
this sanguinary statute was swept away along 
with tlu' other acts of the Commonwealth, on the 
restoration of Charles II. to whose temper and 
manners it must have been peculiarly abhorrent. 
And, after the Revolution, when several salutary 
acts, passed during the suspensior of tlie monar- 
chy, were re-euacted by the Scottish parliament, 



particularly that for the establishment of parish 
schools, the statute punishing fornication witli 
deatli, was suflered to sleep in tht; grave of the 
stem fanatics who had given it birth. 

Note D. See/>. 5. 

The legitimation of children by subsequent 
marriage, became the Roman law under the 
Christian emperors. It was the canon law of 
motlern Europe, a;id has been established in Scot- 
land from a very remote period. Thus, a child 
born a bastard, if his parents afterwards marry, 
enjoys all the privileges of seniority over his bro- 
thers afterwards bom in wedlock. In the parlia- 
ment of Merton, in the reign of Henry III, the 
English clergy made a vigorous attempt to uitro- 
duce this article into the law of England, and it 
was on tliis occasion, that the barons made the 
noted answer, since so often appealed to: Qiiod 
noliint leges Anglian rautare ; qua: hue usque usi- 
tatce sunt et opprobata:. With regard to what 
constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, as ex- 
plained />. 5, ditRrs from the Roman law, which 
required the ceremony to be performed in facie 
ccclesicv. 



No. II. 

Note A. Seep.U. 

IT may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our bard, and it is, 
therefore, extracted from a kind of common-place 
book, which he seems to have begun in his twen- 
tieth year ; and which he entitled, " Observations, 
Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, drc, by Robert 
Burness, a man who had little art in making mo- 
ney, and still less in keeping it ; but was, how- 
ever, a man of some sense, a g-reat deal of hones- 
ty, and unbounded good-will to every cr..ature, 
rational or irrational. As lie was but little in- 
debted to a scholastic education, and bred at a 
plough-tail, his performances must be strongly 
tinctured with his unpolished rustic way of life ; 
but as, I believe, they are really his own, it may 
be some entertainment to a curious observer of 
liuman nature, to see how a ploughman thinks 
and feels, under the pressui-e of love, ambition, 
anxiety, grief, with the like cares and jiassions, 
which, however diversified 'oy the modes and man- 
ners of life, operate pretty much alike, I beUeve, 
in all the species." 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
Thv forms our pencil, or our pin design'd, 

Such v.as our youthful air, and sliape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind." 
Shenstone. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed this 
account of himself, and of his intention in pre- 
paring it, contains sevrral of his earlier poems, 
some as they were printed, and others in their 



APPENDIX. No. II. 



Note B. 



embryo state, 
lows. 



The son* alluded to is as fol- 



ApTil, 1783. 



EXTEMPORE. 



Tune—' / am a Man unmarried.'' 

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay and I love her still, 
And whilst ihat virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tallal de ral, dye. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mein 

The like I never saw. 

A bonny lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May sliglitly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without controul. 

Tallal de ral, &c. 



why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

I'm twenty-tliree, and five feet nine, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

I held it weel thegither ; 
^ut now its gane, and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



FRAGMENT. 

Tune—' Donald Blue.'' 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. 

Sing tal lal lay, &c. 

Your fine Toin Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 

They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



It must be confessed, that these lines give no 
indication of the future genius of Bui-ns ; but he 
himself seems to have been fond of them, probably 
from the recollections they excited. 

Note B. See p. 13. 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun white the stick and a' that. 

Mem. To get for Mr. Johnston these twcj 
songs : 

' Molly, Molly, my dear honey.''—'' The cock 
and the hen, the deer in her den.'' &:c. 



At the time that our poet took the resolution 
of becoming rvise, he procured a little book of 
blank paper, with the purpose (expressed on the 
first page) of making farming memorandums upon 
it. These farming memorandums are curious 
enough ; many of them have been written with a 
pencil, and are now obliterated, or at least illegi- 
ble. A considerable number are, however, legible, 
and a specimen may gratify the reader. It must 
be premised that the poet kept the book by him 
several years— that he wrote upon it, here and 
there, with the utmost irregularity, and that on 
the same page are notations, very distant from 
each other as to time and place. 



Ah Chloris! Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, 
the author. Bote. He married hei*, the heiress of 
Pitferran. 

Colonel George Crawfoi'd, the author of Down 
the Burn Davy, 

Pinkey-housc, by J. Mitchell. 

My Apron Deary! and Amynta, by sir G. 
Elliot. 

IVillie was a wanton IVag, was made on Wal- 
kinshaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

/ loe }ia a laddie but anc, Mr. Clunzee. 

The bonnie wee thing,— he&utiful.—Ltwdie's 
Dream — very beautiful. 

He tlWt and she till't—usiez bien. 



Note B. 



APPENDIX. No. II. 



Armstrong's Farewell— finf . 

The autlior of tl»e Highland Queen, was a Mr. 
M'lver, purser of the Solboy. 

Fife and a' the Land about it, R. Fergusson. 

The author of The Bush aboon Traquair, was 
a Dr. Stewart. 

Pohvart on the Green, composed by captain 
John Drummond M'Grej^or of Boehaldie. 

Mem. To inquire if Mr. Cockhura was the au- 
thor of, / hae seen the smiling, &c. 



The above may serve as a specunen. All the 
notes on farming are obliterated. 

Note C. See p. 24. 

Utiles and Regulations to be observed in the 
Bachelors'' Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every 
fourth Monday night, when a question on any 
subject shall be jiroposed, disputed points of re- 
ligion only excepted, in the manner hei-eafter 
directed ; which question is to be debated in tlie 
club, each member taking whatever side he thinks 
proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, 
he failing, some olie of the members till he come, 
shall take his seat ; then the other members shall 
seat themselves, those who are for one side of the 
question on the president's right hand, and those 
who are for the other side on his left : which of 
them shall have the right hand is to be detennin- 
ed by the president. The president and four of 
tlie members being pi*esent, shall have the power 
to transact any ordinary part of the society's bu- 
smess. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president 
shall read the question out of the club's book of 
recorils (which book is always to be kept by the 
president) ; then the two members nearest tJie 
president shall cast lots, wlio of tliem shall speak 
first, and, according as tlie lot shall determine, the 
member nearest the president, on that side, shall 
deliver his opinion, and the member neai*est, on 
the other side sliall reply to him ; then the se- 
cond member of the side that spoke first, then the 
second member of the side that spoke second, and 
so on to the end of the company ; but, if there be 
fewer members on one side than on the other, 
when all the members of the least side have spoken, 
according to their places, any of them, as they 
please among themselves, may reply to the re- 
maining members of tlie opposite side : when 
both sides have spoken, the president shr.U give 
his opinion, after which, they may go over it a se- 
cond or mor:' times, and so continue the question. 
4th. The club shall then proceed to tlie choice 
of a question for the subject of next night's meet- 
ing. The president shall first propose one, and 
any other member, who chuses, may propose more 
questions ; and, Avhatever ojie of them is most 
agi-eeable to the majority of the members, shall 
be the subject of debate next club-night. 



5th. The club shall lastly elect a new president 
for the next meeting : the president shall first 
name one, then any of the club may name ano- 
ther, and, whoever of them has the majority of 
votes, shall be duly elected ; allowing the presi- 
dent the iirst vote and the casting vote, upon a 
par, but none other. Then, after a general 
toast to the mistresses of the club, they shall dis- 
miss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversation 
carried on during the time of debate, nor shall 
any member interrupt another while he is speak- 
ing, under the penalty of a i-eprimand from the 
president for the first fault, doubling his share of 
the reckoning for the second, trebling it for the 
third, and so on in proportion for every other 
fault ; provided always, however, that any mem- 
ber may speak at any time after leave asked and 
given by the president. All swearing and profane 
language, and particularly all obscene and inde- 
cent conversation, is strictly prohibited, under the 
same penalty as aforesaid, in the first clause of 
this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, 
shall mention any of the club's aflTairs to any 
other person, but a brother member, under the 
pain of being excluded ; and particularly if any 
member shall reveal any of the speeches or af- 
fairs of the club, with a view to I'idicule or laugh 
at any of the rest of the members, he shall be for 
ever excommunicated from the society : and the 
rest of the members are desired, as much as pos- 
sible, to avoid, and have no communication with 
him as a friend or comrade. 

StJi. Every member shall attend at the meet- 
iiigs, without he can give a proper excuse for not 
attending; and it is desired, that every one who 
cainiot attend, will send his excuse with some 
other member ; and he who shall be absent three 
meetings, without "sending such excuse, shall be 
summoned to the next club night, when, if he fail 
to appear, or send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than 
sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to the 
pai'ish of Tarbolton ; except a brother member 
marry, and in that case he may be continued, if 
the majority of the club think proper. No per- 
son shall be admitted a member of this society 
without the unanimous consent of the club ; and 
any member may withdraw from the club alto- 
gether, by giving a notice to the president, in 
w riting, of his departure. 

10th. Evei'y man, proper for a member of this 
society, must have a frank, honest, open heart ; 
above any thing dirty or mean ; and must be a 
professed lover of one or more of the female sex. 
No haughty, self-conceited person, who looks 
upon himself as superior to the rest of the club, 
aiul especially no mean-spirited, worldly mortal, 
whose ojily will is to heap up monej, shall, upon 
any pretence whatever, be admitted. In short, 
ihe proper person for this society, is a cheerful, 
hontst-hearted lad; who, if he has a friend that 
is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as much 
wealtJi as genteelly to make both ends meet— is 
just as happy as this world can make him. 



80 



APPENDIX. No. II. 



Note D. 



Note D. Seejs. 68. 

A great number of manuscript poems were 
found among- the papers of Burns, addressed to 
him by admirers of his genius, from different 
parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland and Ame- 
rica. Among these, was a poetical epistle from 
Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior merit. 
It is written in the dialect of Scotland (of which 
country Mr. Telford is a native), and in tlie ver- 
sification generally employed by our poet himself. 
*Its object is to recommend to him other subjects 
of a serious nature, similar to that of the Catter^s 
Saturday Night; and the reader will find that the 
advice is happily enforced by example. It would 
Iiave given the editor pleasure to have inserted 
the whole of this poem, which he hopes will one 
day see the light : he is happy to have obtained, 
in the mean time, his friend Mr. Telford's per-« 
mission to insert the following extracts. 



How; with religious awe imprest, 
They open lay the guileless breast. 
And youth and age with fears distrest, 

All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share*. 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 
Successive crowds the valleys fill, 
"While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 

To suit the day. 

How plac'd along the sacred board, 

Their hoary pastor's looks ador'd. 

His voice with peace and blessings stor'd, 

Sent from above, 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford, 

And boundless lore. 



Pursue, O Burns ! thy happy style, 

" Those manner-painting strains," that, while 

They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days. 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile. 

Blest my young ways. 



O'er this, with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings pleased bow. 
And, whispei*'d, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid' such scenes below. 

Their future peers. 



I see my fond companions rise, 

I join the happy village joys, 

1 see our green hills touch the skies. 

And thro' the woods 
I hear the river's rushing noise. 

Its I'oaring floods*. 



O mark the awful, solemn scenef ! 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Ajjproaching slow. 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent woe. 



No distant Swiss with warmer glow. 
E'er heard his native music flow. 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

Than still have mine, 
When up this ancient mountt I go, 

With songs of thine. 

O happy bard ! thy gen'rous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's fame, 
For this thy charming numbers came. 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing, and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 



Some much-respected brother's bier, 
(By turns in pious task they share,) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path ; 
Where nei'bours saw, in dusky airt, 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how. 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views ; 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse. 

With holy air. 
And sing the course the pious chuse, 

With all thy care. 



* The banks of the Esk, in Dumfriesshire, are 
Iiere alluded to. E. 

t A beautiful little mount, which stands imme- 
diately Ijefore, or rather forms a part of Shrews- 
bury castle, a seat of sir William Pulteney, bart. 



Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wint'ry tempests rave. 
In the cold \yind their grey locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 



* The sacrament, generally administered in the 
country parishes of Scotland in the open air. 

t A Scottish funeral. E. 

X This alludes to a superstition prevalent in 
Eskdale and Annandale, that a light precedes ivi 
the night every funeral, marking the precise path 
it is to pass, E. 



Kote D. 



APPENDIX. No. II. 



8t 



Expressive looks from each declare 
TIk- g-riefs within their bosoms bear, 
One holy bow devout the) shure, 

Then lionie return, 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how, by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing s'.ir is willing caught,) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought. 

Tilt shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lo.iely height, 

Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known. 
On sabbath morn a.id far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked sliown 

Before his God- 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the tlirone. 

And blest abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy; 
And all his constant kind employ, 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy. 

As means to live. 



May still each fond attachment glow, 

O'er woods, o'er sirtiin.s. o • r hilN of snow ; 

May rugged rocks still dearer groW, 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock gkns, which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these. 
And ail their happy manners seize. 
Will every virtuous bosom please. 

And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

■\Vliile all the venal tribes decay. 
That bask in fiatfrj's flaunting ray, 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Tliy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway. 

And lasting i-eign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains. 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Shall teach the rising youth thy strains. 

And anxious say. 
Our blessing with our sons remain, 

And Bu7-ns''s lay ! 



The parish school, its curious site. 
The master who can clear indite. 
And lead him on to count and write. 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 

Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad. 
Who o'er the ingle hings his head. 
And begs of nei'bours books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Baith bauld and wise. 



'l"he bonnie lasses, as they spin. 

Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin. 

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Thro' flowery hows ; 
Where shepherd lads their sweethearts win 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be. Bums, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage. 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join. 
To bliss the bard, who, gay or sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms wai-m to latest days. 

And aye improve. 



No. III. 



(First inserted in the second edition.) 

THE editor has paiticular pleasure in pre 
senting to the public the following letter, to the 
due understanding of which, a ittw previous ob- 
servations are necessarj . 

The biographer of Burns was naturally de 
sirons of hearing the opinion of the friend and 
brother of the poet, on the manner in which he 
had executed his task, before a second edition 
should be committed to the press. He had the 
satisfaction of receiving this opinion, in a letter 
dated the 24th of August, approving of the life in 
very obliging terms, and o-lering one or two tri- 
vial corrections, as to names and dates chiefly, 
which are made in this edition. One or two ob- 
servations were off'ered of a different kind. In the 
319th page of the first volume, first edition, a quo- 
tation is made from the pastoral song, Etrick 
Banks, and an explanation given of the phi-ase 
" mony feck" which occurs in this quotation. 
Supposing the sense to be complete after " mo- 
ny," the editor had considered " feck" as a rus- 
tic oath, which confirmed the assertion. The 
words were, therefore, separated by a comma. 
Mr. Burns considered this as an error. " Feck," 
he presumes, is the Scottish word for quantity, 
and " mony feck" to mean simply, very many. 
The editor, in yielding to this authority, express- 
ed some hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
** mony feck," was, in Mr. Burns' sense, a pleo- 
nasm or barbarism, which deformed this beautiful 
I. 



S52 



APPENDIX. No. III. 



song*. His reply to this observation, makes the 
first clause of the following kttir. 

In the same communication, he informed me 
that the Minor and the Lounger were proposed 
by him to the Conversation Club of IMauchiine, 
and that he had tlioughts of giving me his senti- 
ments on the remarks I had jnade respecting the 
fitness of such \vorks for such societies. The ob- 
servations of such a man, on such a subject, the 
editor conceived, w ould be receivi d with particu- 
lar interest by the public, and having pressed 
earnestly for them, they will be found in the fol- 
lowing letter. Of the value of this communica- 
tion, delicacy towards his very respectable corres- 
pondent prevents him from expressing hii opi- 
nion. The original letter is in the hands of 
Messrs. Cadell and Davies. 

Dinning^ Dumfriesshire, 24th Oct. 1800. 
Dear sir, 

Yours of the 17th inst. came to my hand yes- 
terday, and I sit down this afternoon to write 
you in return ; but when I shall be able to finish 
all I wish to say to yeu, I caiuiot tell. I am sorry 
your conviction is not complete respecting Jeck. 
There is no doubt, that, if you take two English 
words, which appear sjTionymous to viony feck, 
and judge by the rules of English construction, it 
will appear a barbarism. I believe, if you take 
this mode of translating from any language, the 
effect will frequently be the same. But. if you 
take the expression montj feck to have, as I have 
stated it, tlie same meaning with the English ex- 
pression very many (and such licence every trans- 
lator must be allowed, especially when he trans- 
lates from a simple dialect, which has never been 
subjected to rule, and where the precise meaning 
of words is of consequence not minutely attended 
to), it will be well enough. One thing I am cer- 
tain of, that ours is the sense universally under- 
stood in this country ; and, I believe, no Scotsman 
who has lived contented at home, pleased with 
the simple manners, the simple melodies, and the 
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud sci- 
ence never taught to stray," ever discovered bar- 
barism in the song of Etrick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my 
father's house falling down, is simply as foUowsf : 
When my father built his " clay biggin," he put 
in two stone jambs, as they are called, and a lin- 
tel, caiTying up a chinniey in his clay gable. The 
consequence was, that, as the gable subsided, the 
jambs, remaining firm, threw it ofi its ce;:tre ; 
and, one very stormy moniing, when my brother 
was nine or ten days old, a little before day-light, 
a part of the gable fell out, and the rest appeared 

* The correction made by Gilbert Burns, has 
also been suggested by a writer in the Monthly 
Magazine, under the signature of Alboiu, who, for 
taking this trouble, and for mentioning the au- 
thor of the ijoem of Donoclit-head, deserves the 
editor's thanks. 

t The editor had heard a report, that the j)oet 
was born in the midst of a storm, wliich blew 
down a part of the house. E. 



so shattered, that my mother, with the young 
poet, had to be carried through the storm to a 
neighbour's house, where tliey remained a week, 
till their own dwelling was adjusted. That you 
may not think too meanly of this house, or of my 
father's taste in building, by supposing the poet's 
desci-iption in the Vision (which is entirely a fan- 
cy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take no- 
tice to you, that the house consisted of a kitchen 
in one end, and a room in the other, with a fire- 
place and chimney ; that my father had construct- 
ed a concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small 
closet at the end, of the same materials with the 
house, and when altogether cast over, outside and 
in, with lime, it had a neat, comfonable appear- 
ance, such as no family of the. same rank, in the 
present impi'oved style of living, would think 
themselves ill lodged in. I wish, likewise, to take 
notice in passing, that, although the " Cotter," in 
the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father 
in his mamiers, his family devotion, and exhorta- 
tions, yet, the other parts of the description do 
not apply to our family. None of us were ever 
" At service out amang the neebors roun." In- 
stead of our depositing our "fair won penny fee'» 
with our parents, my father laboured hard, and 
lived with the most rigid economy, that he might 
be able to keep his children at home, thereby 
having an oi)portunity of watching the progress 
of our young minds, and forming in them early 
habits of piety and virtue ; and from this motive 
alone, did he engage in farming, the source of all 
liis difficulties and distresses. 

When I tlireatened you in my last with a long 
letter on the subject of the boofts I recommended 
to the Mauchline club, and the eft'ects of refine- 
ment of taste on the labouring classes of men, I 
meant merely that I wished to write you on that 
subject, with the view that, in some future com- 
munication to the public, you might take up the 
subject more at large, that, by means of your 
happy manner of w riting, the attention of people 
of power and influence might be fixed on it. I 
had little expectation, however, that I should 
overcome my indolence and the difliculty of ar- 
ranging my thoughts so far as to put my threat 
in execution, till some tijne ago, before I had 
finished my harvest, having a call from Mr. 
Ewart* with a message from you, pressing me to 
the i)erformance of this task, I thought juyself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set 
about it with my first leisure. I will now, there- 
fore, endeavour to lay before you what has occur- 
red to my mind on a subject where people, capa- 
ble of observation, and of placing their remarks 
in a proper point of view, have seldom an oppor- 
tunity of making their remarks on real life. In 
doing this, I may perhaps be led souietimes to 
write more in the manner of a jjerson communi- 
cating information to you, which you did not 
know before, and at other times more in the style 
of egotism, than I would choose to do to any per- 
son in whose candour, and even personal good 
will, 1 had less confidence. 

* The editor's friend. 3Ir. Peter Ewart, of 
Munchester, E. 



At»PENDIX. No. III. 



83 



There are two several lines of study that open 
to every man as he enters life : the one. tlie gene- 
ral science of life, of duty, and of happiness ; the 
other, the particular arts of his enijiloyment or 
situation in society, and the several branches of 
knowledge therewith coiniecti d. This last is cer- 
tainly indispensable, as nothing can l>e more dis- 
graceful than ignorance in the way of one's own 
profession; and. whatever a man's speculative 
knowledge may be, if he is ill informed there, he 
can neither be a useful, nor a respectable member 
of society. It is nevertheless true, that " The 
proper study of mankind is man ;" to consider 
what duties are incunibent on him as a rational 
creature, and a membtr of society; how he may 
increase or secure his happiness ; and how he may 
prevent or soften the many miseries incident to 
human life. 1 tliink the pursuit of happiness is 
too frequently confijied to the endeavour after the 
acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be consi- 
dered as an idle declaimer against riches, which, 
after all that can be said against them, will still 
be considered, by men of common sense, as objects 
of importance ; and poverty will be felt as a sore 
evil, after all the fine things that can be said of 
its advantages ; on the contrary I am of opiiiion, 
that a great proportion of the miseries of life 
arise from the want of economy, and a prudent 
attention to money, or the ill-directed or intem- 
perate pursuit of it. But, however valuable 
riches may be as the means of comfort, indepen- 
dence, and the pleasure of doijig good to others, 
yet, I am of opinion that they may be, and fre- 
quently are, purchased at too great a cost, and 
that gacrifices are made in the pursuit, which the 
acquisition cannot compensate. I remember hear- 
ing my Avorthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an 
anecdote to my father, vhich I think sets this 
matter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- 
gin, or at least tended to promote, this way of 
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Allo- 
way, he went to teach and reside in the family of 
an opulent farmer, who had a number of sons. 
A neighbour, coming on a visit, in the course of 
conversation asked the father how he meant to 
dispose of his sons. The father replied that he 
had not determined. The visitor said, that, were 
he in his place, he would give them all good edu- 
cation and send them abroad (without perhaps 
having a precise idea where^. The father ob- 
jected, that many young men lost their health in 
foreign countries, and many their lives. True, 
replied the visitor, but as you have a number of 
sons, it will be strange if some one of them does 
not live and make a foitune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a fa- 
ther coimnent on this story : but, though few will 
avow, even to themselves, that such views govern 
their conduct, yet do we not daily see ])eople 
shipping oft' their sons (and who would do so by 
theii- daughters also, if there were any demand 
for them), that they may be rich or perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is seldom 
considered in any other point of view, than as the 
means of raising them from that station to which 
they were born, and of making a fortune. I am 



ignorant of the mysteries of the art of acquiring 
fortune w ithout any thing to begin with, and can- 
not calculate, with any degree of exactness, the 
difficulties to be surmounted, the mortifications to 
be suffered, and the degradation of character to 
be submitted to, in lending one's self to be the mi- 
nister of other people's vices, or in the practice 
of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, in 
the progress ; but even when the a\ ished-for end is 
attained, it may be questioned whether happiness 
be inuijh increased by the chiinge. When I have 
seen a fortunate adventtirer of the lower ranks of 
life rerurned from the East or West Indies, with 
all the hauteur of a vtilgar mind, accustomed to 
ue served by slaves, assuming a character, which, 
from the early habits of his life, he is ill fitted to 
support ; displaying magnificence which raises 
the envy of some and the contempt of others ; 
claiming an equality with the great, which they 
are unwilling to allow ; inly pining at the prece- 
dence of the hereditary gentry ; maddened by the 
polished insolence of some of the unworthy part 
of them ; seeking pleasure in the society of men 
who can condescend to flatter him. and listen to 
his absurdity for the sake of a good dinner and 
good wine ; I cannot avoid concluding, that his 
brother, or companion, who, by a diligent appli- 
cation to the labours of agriculture, or some use- 
ful mechanic employment, and the careful hus- 
banding of his gains, has acquired a competencw 
in his station, is a much happier, and. in the eye 
of a person who can take an enlarged view of 
mankind, a much more respectable man. 

But. the votaries of wealth may be considered 
as a great number of candidates striving for a few 
prizes, and, whatever addition the successful may 
make to their pleasure or happiness, the disap- 
pointed will always have more to suffer. I am 
afraid, thaii those who abide contented in the sta- 
tion to which they were born. I wish, therefore, 
the education of the lower class( s to be promoted 
and directed to their improvement as men, as the 
means of increasing their virtue, and opening- Ut 
them new and dignified sources of pleasure and 
happiness. I have heard some people object to 
the education of the lower classes of men, as ren- 
dering them less useful by abstracting them from 
their proper business ; others, as tending to make 
them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their 
condition, and turbulent subjects ; while yoii, with 
more humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest the 
delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of educa- 
tion and reading I recommend, should render the 
evils of their situation insupportable to them. I 
wish to examine the validity of each of these ob- 
jections, begiiming with the one you have men- 
tioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, al- 
though I understand there are people who think 
themselves judges, who do not agree with you. 
The acquisition of knowledge, except what is 
connected with human life and conduct, or the 
particular business of his employment, does not 
appear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a pea- 
sant. I would say with the poet, 



84 



APPENDIX. No. III. 



" How empty leanitng, and how vain is art, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the 
heart !'' 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in 
the use of the word taste. I understand it to be 
tlie perception and relish of beauty, order, or any 
other thing, the contemplation of which gives 
pleasui-e and delight to the mind. I suppose it is 
in this sense you wish it to be understood. If 
I am i-ight, the taste which these books are calcu- 
lated to cultivate (beside the taste for fine writing, 
which many of the papers tend to improve and 
to gratify), is, what is proper, consistent, and be- 
coming in human character and conduct, as al- 
most every paper relates to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me, that 
I might point out some instances. I remember 
two ; one, the beautiful stoi-j- of La Roche, where, 
beside the pleasure one derives from n beautiful 
simple story told in M'Kenzie's happiest manner, 
the mind is led to taste, with heart-felt rapture, 
the consolation to be derived, in deep affliction, 
from habitual devotion and trust in Almighty 

God. The other, the story of general W , 

where the reader is led to have a high rdish for 
that firmness of mind which disregards appear- 
ances, the common forms and vanities of life, for 
tlie ake of doing justice in a case which was out 
of the reach of human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that, if the morality 
of these books is subordinate to the cultivation of 
taste ; that taste, that refinement of mind and de- 
licacy of sentiment, which they are intended to 
give, are the strongest guard and surest foun.da- 
tion of morality and virtue. Other moralists 
guard, as it were, the overt act ; these papers, by 
exalting duty into sentiment, are calculated to 
make every deviation from rectitude and propri- 
ety of conduct, painful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers 
Refine at length, and eAery passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you that the i-efinement of mind 
which I contend for, increases our sensibility to 
the e^-ils of life ; but what station of lift is with- 
out its evils ? There seems to be no such thing 
as perfect happiness in this world ; and we must 
balance the pleasure and the pain which we de- 
rive from taste, before we can properly appreci- 
ate it in the case before us. I apprehend that 
on a minute examination it will appear, that the 
evils peculiar to the lower ranks of life, derive 
their power to wound us more from the sugges- 
tions of false pride, and the " contagion of luxu- 
ry weak and vile," than the refinement of our 
taste. It was a favourite remark of my brother's, 
tliat there was no pai't of the constitution of our 
nature, to which we were more indebted, than 
that by which " custoTn makes things familiar 
and easy'''' (a copy Mr. Murdoch used to set us to 
write), and there is little labour which custom will 
not make easy to a man in health, if h^ is not 
ashamed of his employment, or does Jiot begin to 



compare his situation with those he may see go- 
ing about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the respect 
due to him as a man ; he has learned that no em- 
plo>inent is dishonourable in itsdf ; that wliile he 
performs aright the duties of that station, in which 
God has placed him, he is as great as a king in 
the eyes of Him whom he is prijicipally desirous 
to please ; for the man of taste, who is constantly 
obliged to labour, must of necessity be religious. 
If you teach him only to reason, you may make 
him an atheist, a dejnagogue, or any vile thing ; 
but, if you teach him to feel, his feelings can only 
find their proper and natural relief in devotion 
and religious resignation. He knows that those 
people who are to appearance at ease, are not 
without their share of evils, and that even toil it- 
self is not destitute of advantages. He listens to 
the words of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; 
That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And ceites there is for it reason great, 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail. 
And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late ; 

Withouten that would come an heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale!" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful 
recolkction comes across his mind, how often he 
has derived ijiefi'able pleasure from the sweet song 
of " Nature's darling child." I can say, from my 
own experience, that there is no soit of farm la- 
bour inconsistent with the most refined and plea- 
surable state of the mind that I am acquainted 
with, thrashiiig alone excepted. That, indeed, I 
have always considered as insupportable drudge- 
ry ; and think the ingenious mechanic who in- 
vented the thrashing machine, ought to have a 
statue among the benefactors of his country, and 
should be placed in the niche next to the person 
who introduced the culture of potatoes into this 
island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the 
education of the common people, is, to prevent 
the intrusion of artificial wants^ I bless the me- 
mory of my worthy father for almost every tiling 
in the dispositions of my mind, and my habits of 
life, which I can approve of; and for none more 
than the pains he took to impress my mind with 
the sentiment, that nothing was more unworthy 
the character of a man, than that his happiness 
should in the least depend on what he should eat 
or drink. So early did he ijiipress my mind with 
this, that, although I w as as fond of sw eetmeats as 
children generally are, yet I seldom laid out any 
of the halfpence which relations or neighbours 
gave me, at fairs, in the purchase of them ; and if 
I did, evei'y mouthful I swallowed was accompa- 
nied with shame and remorse ; and, to this hour, 
I never indulge in the use of any delicacy, but I 
feel a considerable degree of self-reproach and 
alarm for the degradation of the human character. 



APPENDIX. No. III. 



85 



Such a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
constqutiice, botli to the vinne and happiness of 
men in the lower ranks of life. And thus, sir, I 
an> of opinion, that if tluir minds are early and 
deeply imprest with a sense of the dignity of man, 
as such; with the love of independence and indus- 
trj-, economy and temperance, as the most obvious 
means of making themselves independent, and the 
virtues most becoming their situation, and neces- 
sary to their happiness ; men in the lower ranks 
of life may partake of the pleasures to be derived 
from the perusal of books calculated to improve 
the mind and refine the taste, without any danger 
of becoming more unhappy in their situation, or 
discontented witli it. Nor do I think there is any 
danger of their becoming less useful. Thire are 
some hours every day, that the most constant la- 
bourer is neither at work nor asleep. These hours 
are either appropriated to amusement or to sloth. 
If a taste for employing these hours in reading 
were cultivated, I do not suppose that the return 
to labour would be more difficult. Every one will 
allow that the attachment to idle amusements, or 
even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to ab- 
stract men from their proper business, as the at- 
tachment to books ; while the one dissipates the 
mind, and the other tends to increase its powers 
of self-government. To those who are afraid that 
the improvement of the minds of tlie common 
people might be dangerous to the state, or the 
established order of society, I would remark, that 
turbulence and commotion are certainly very ini- 
mical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let the 
matttr be brought to the test of experience and 
observation. Of wliat description of people are 
mobs and insurrections composed ? Are they not 
universally owing to the want of enlargement 
and improvement of mind among the common 
people ? Nay, let any one recollect the charac- 
ters of those who foruied the calmer a;;d more de- 
liberate associations, which lately gave so much 
alarm to the government of this country. I sup- 
pose few of the common people who were to be 
found in such societies, had the education and 
turn of mind I have been endeavouring to recom- 
mend. Allow me to suggest one reason for en- 
deavouring to enlighten the minds of the common 
people. Their morals have hitherto been guarded 
by a sort of dim religious awe, which, from a va- 
riety of causes, seems wearing off. I think the 
alteration in this respect considerable, in the short 
period of my observation. I have already given 
my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind 
on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds 
begin te shake ort' the dogmas of the religion in 
which they have been educated, the progress is 
quick and immediate to downright infidelity ; 
and nothing but refinement of mind can enable 
them to distinguish between the pure essence of 
of religion, and the gross systems which men have 
been perpetually connecting it with. In addition 
to what has ahead) been done for the education 
of the connnon people of this country, in the 
establishment of parish schools, I wish to see the 
salaries augmented in some projxjrtion to the pre- 
sent expense of living, and the earnings of people 



of similar rank, endowments, and usefulness in 
society ; and I hope that the liberality of the 
present age will no longer be disgraced by re- 
fusing, to so useful a class of men, such encou- 
ragement as may make parish schools woith the 
attention of men fitted for the important duties 
of that ofllice. In filling up the vacancies, I 
would have more attention paid to the candidate's 
capacity of reading the English language with 
grace and propriety ; to his understanding tho- 
roughly, and hanng a high relish for the beau- 
ties of English authors, both in poetry and prose ; 
to that good sense and knowledge of human na- 
ture, which would enable him to acquire some 
influence on the minds and affections of his scho- 
lars ; to the general worth of his character, and 
the love of his kind and his country, than to big 
proficiency in the kiiowledge of Latin and Greek. 
I would then have a sort of high Etiglish class esta- 
blished, not only for th( purpose of teaching the 
pupils to read in that graceful and agreeable man- 
ner that might make them fond of reading, but to 
make them understand what they read, ajid dis- 
cover the beauties of the author in composition 
and sentiment. I would have established in every 
parish a small circulating library, consisting of the 
books which the young people had read extracts 
from, in the coUectioiis they had read at school, 
and any other books well calculated to refine the 
mind, improve the moral feelings, recommend th» 
practice of virtue, and communicate such know- 
ledge as n»ight be useful or suitable to the labour- 
ing classes of men. 1 w ould have the schoolmaster 
act as librarian, and, in recommending books to 
his young friends, formei-ly his pupils, and letting 
in the light of them upon their young minds, he 
should have the assistance of the minister. If 
once such education were become general, the low 
delights of the public-house, and other scenes of 
riot and depravity, would be contemned and ne- 
glected, while industry, ordei-, cleanliness, and 
every virtue, which laste and independence of 
mind could recommend, would prevail and flou- 
rish. Thus, possessed of a virtuous and enligh- 
tened populace, with high delight I should consi- 
der my native country as at the head of all the 
nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

Ihus, sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
ter. If I had not presumed on doing it more to 
my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; but I 
have not time to attempt it anew ; or, if I would, 
am I certain that I should succeed any better ? I 
have learned to have less confidence in my capa- 
city of writing on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the 
terms on which I possess it. I receive great en- 
couragement likewise in building, inclosing, and 
other conveniences, from my landlord, Mr. G. S. 
Monteith, whose general character and conduct, 
as a landlord and country gentleman, I am highly 
pleased with. But the land is in such a state, as 
to requiria considtrable immediate outlay of mo- 
ney in the purchase of mantire, the grubbing of 



APPENDIX. No. III. 



brush-wood, removing" of stones, &c., which twelve 
years struggle with a farm of a cold ungrateful 
soil, has but ill prepared me for. If I can get 
these things done, however, to my mind, I think 
there is next to a certainty, that, in five or six 
years, I shall be in a hopeful way of attaining a 
situation, which I think as eligible for happiness, 
as any one I know ; for I have always been of 
opinion, that if a man, bred to the habits of a 
farming life, who possesses a farm of good soil, 
on such terms as enables him easily to pay all de- 
mands, is not happy, he ought to look somewhere 



else, than to his situation, for the causes of his 
uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me to 
Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe, jun., 
whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, 
I shall never forget. 

I am, dear sir. your most obedient, and much 
obliged humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 
To James Currie, M. D. F. R. S. 
Liverpool. 



CORRESPONDENCE 

WITH 

Mr. GEORGE THOMSON; 

INCLUDING 

POETRY, 

HITHEETO UMPUBLISHED OR UNCOLLECTED. 



THE following pa;^es contain the Correspon- , 
dence between Mr. Burns and Mr. Thomson, on 
the subject of the beautiful work projected and 
executed by the latter, the nature of which is ex- 
plained in the first number of the following se- 
ries*. The undertaking of Mr. Thomson, is one 
on which the public may be congratulated in va- 
rious points of view ; not merely as having col- 
lected the finest of the Scottish songs and airs of past 
times, but as having given occasion to a numbe*" 
of original songs of our bard, which equal or sur- 
pass the former efforts of the pastoral muses of 
Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may be 

* This work is entitled, " A Select Collection of 
Original Scottish Jirs for the voice ; to ivhich are 
added, introductory and concluding Symphonies 
and Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and 
Violin, by Pleyel and Kozehich. With select and 
characteristic Verses, by the -most admired Scottish 
Poets, cirr.— London, printed and sold by Preston, 
No. 97, Strand." 



safely compared with the lyric poetry of any age 
or country. The letters of Mr. Burus to Mr. 
Thomson include the songs he presented to him, 
some of which appear in dirterent stages of their 
progress, and these letters will be found to exhibit 
occasionally his notions of song writing, and liis 
opinions on various subjects of taste and criticism. 
These opinions, it will be observed, were called 
forth by the observations of his correspondent, 
Mr. Thomson ; and without the letters of this 
gentleman, those of Burns would have been often 
unintelligible. He has, therefore, yielded to the 
earnest request of the trustees of the fanuly of 
the poet, to sufilr them to appear in their natu- 
ral order ; and, independently of the illustration 
they give to the letters of our bard, it is not to be 
doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure them 
a reception from the public, far beyond what Mr. 
Thomson's modesty would permit him to suppose. 
The whole of this correspondence was arranged 
for the press by Mr. Thomson, and has been 
printed with little addition or vaiiation. 



CORRESPONDENCE, &c. 



No. I. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Sir, Edinburgh, September, 1792. 

FOR some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting and 
collating the most favourite of our national melo- 
dies for publication. We have engaged Pleyel, the 
most agreeable composer living, to put accompa- 
niments to those, and also to compose an instru- 
mental prelude and conclusion to each air, the bet- 
ter to fit them for concerts, both public and pri- 
vate. To render this work perfect, we are desir- 
ous to have the poetry improved, wherever it seems 
unworthy of the music ; and that it is so in many 
instances, is allowed by everyone conversant with 
our musical collections. The editors of these seem 
in general to have depended on the music proving 
an excuse for the verses ; and hence, some charm- 
ing melodies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
grcl, while others; are accommodated with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
company. To remove this reproach, would be an 
«?asy task to the author of The Cotter''s Saturday 
Night; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would 
fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen. 
If so, we shall be enabled to present the public 
with a collection, infinitely more interesting than 
any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all 
persons of taste, whether they wish for correct me- 
lodies, delicate accompaniments, or characteristic 
verses.— We will esteem your poetical assistiince a 
paiticular favour, besides paying any reasonable 
price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
quite a secondai*y considei*ation with us, and we 
are resolved to spare neither pains nor expense on 
the publication. Tell me frankly then, whether 
3'ou will devote your leisure to writing twenty or 
twenty-five songs, suited to the particular melo- 
dies which I am prepared to send you. A few 
songs, exceptionable only in some of their verses, 
I will likewise submit to your consideration ; leav- 
ing it to you, either to mend these, or make new 
songs in their stead. It is superfluous to assure 
you, that I have no intention to displace any of 
the sterling old songs ; those only will be removed, 
which appear quite silly, or absolutely indecciLt. 
Kveji these shall all be examined bv Mr. Burns, and 



if he is of opinion that any of them are deserving 
of the music, in such cases, no divorce shall take 
place. 

Relj'ing on the letter accompanying this, to be 
forgiven, for the liberty I have taken in address- 
ing you, I am, with great esteem, sir, your most 
obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



No. II. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Sir, Dumfries, I6th Sept. 1792. 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the 
request you make to me, will positively add to my 
enjoyments in complying with it, I shall enter into 
your undertaking with all the small portion of A 
abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion 
by the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't hurry 
me : " Deil tak the hindmost" is by no means the 
cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am in- 
ferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment 
to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, 
since you request it, have cheerfully promised my 
mite of assistance— will you let me have a list of 
your airs, with the first line of the printed verses 
you intend for them, that I may have an opportu- 
nity of suggesting any alteration that may occur 
to me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; 
still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right 
of pul)lishers, to approve, or reject, at your plea- 
sure, for your own publication. Apropos, if yon. 
are for English verses, there is, on my part, ai» 
end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of 
the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only 
hope to please myself in being allowed at least a 
sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, 
particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have mer- 
it, are certainly very eligible. Tn-cedside ; Ah I 
the poor shephei-d's mournful fate ; Ah I Chloris, 
could I now but sit, 8tc. you cannot mend : but 
such insipid stuff as, To Fanny fair could I iinpart, 
Sec. usually sit to The Mill Mill 0, is a disgrace to 
the collections, in which it has already appeured, 
and would doubly disgrace a collection that will 
have the very superior merit of yours. But more 
of this, in the farther prosecution of the business^ 



92 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



if I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
ments— 1 say. ampudments ; for I will not alter ex- 
cept where I myself at least, think that I amend. 

As to ajiy remuneration, you may think my 
sonsfs either above or below price ; for they shall 
absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest 
enthusiasm with which I embark in your undei*- 
taking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &:e. 
would be downright /yrostitutior. of soul! A proof 
of each of the songs that I compose or amend, I 
shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of 
the season, •' Gude speed the wark !"' 

I am. sir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for wish- 
ing ray interference to be known as little as pos- 
sible. 



clothes and a bundle of rags. The humorous bal- 
lad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to our 
artless melodies ; and more interesting indeed in 
all songs, than the most pointed wit, dazzling de- 
scriptions, and flowei-y fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you eleven 
of the songs, for which it is my wish to substitute 
others of your writing. I shall soon ti'ansmit the 
rest, and. at the same time, a prospectus of the 
whole collection : and you may believe, we will 
receive any hints that you are so kind as to give 
for improving the work, with the greatest pleasure 
and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear sir, &c. 



No. IV. 



No. III. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Dear sir, Edinburgh, 13th Oct. 1792. 

I received with much satisfaction your pleasant 
and obliging letter, and I return my warmest ac- 
knowledgments for the enthusiasm with which 
you have entered into our unTOrtaking. We have 
now no doubt of being able to produce a collec- 
tion, highly deserving of public attention, in all 
respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new verses 
are necessary ; because the English becomes every 
year, more and more, the language of Scotland ; 
but, if you mean that no English verses, except 
those of Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I 
am half inclined to differ from you. I should con- 
sider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song in 
the Scottish dialect, to make room for English 
verses ; but, if we can select a few- excellent ones, 
suited to the unprovided or iU-p rounded airs, would 
it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism, to 
reject such, merely because the authors were born 
south of the Tweed ? Our sweet air My Nanie 0, 
which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, 
While some fur pleasure pmvn their health, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, 
Nancy milt thou go u-ith me, that one would think 
he wrote it on purpose for the air. However, it 
is not at all our wish to confine you to English 
verses : you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of 
your native tongue, as you elegantly express it ; 
and, mort-over, we will patiently wait jour own 
time. One thing only I beg, which is, that, howe- 
ver gay and sportive the muse may be, slie may 
always be decent. Let her isot winte what beauty 
would blush to speak, nor wound th.it charming 
delicacy, which forms the most precious dowry of 
our daughters. I do not conceive the song to be 
the most proper vehicle for witty and brilliai.t 
conceits : simplicity, I believe, should be its prom- 
inent feature ; but, in some of our songs, the wri- 
ters have confounded simplicity with coarseness 
and vulgarity ; although, between the one and the 
other, as Di-. Beattie well observes, there is as 
great a difference, as between a plain suit of 



My dear sir, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious ja 
your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your 
criticisms are j ust ; the songs you specify in your 
list have all but one the faults you remark in them ; 
but who shall mend the matter ? Who shall rise 
up and say — Go to, I will make a better ? For in- 
stance, on reading over The Lea-rig, I immediately 
set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I 
could make notliing more of it than the following, 
which Heaven knows is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks* 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the niglit were ne'er sae wildf. 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 

* For " scented birks," in some copies, " birken 
buds." E. 

t In the copy transmitted to Mr. Thomson, in- 
stead of ivild, was inserted wet. But in one of the 
manuscripts, probably written afterwards, w et was 
changed into wild ; evidently a great improvement. 
The lovers might meet on tlie lea-rig, " although 
the night were ne'er so ivild," that is, although 
the summer-wind blew, the sky loured, and the 
thunder murmured : such circumstances might ren- 
der their meeting still more iiiteresting. But if 
the night were actually wet, why should they meet 
on the lea-rig ? On a wet night, the imagination 
cannot contemplate their situation there with any 
complacency,— Tibullus, and after him Hammond, 
has conceived a happier situation for lovers on a 
wet night. Probably Burns had in his mind, the 
verse of an old Scottish song, in w Inch 7vet and 
7ieary are naturally enough conjoined : 



Mr, GEORGE TII0:MS0N'. 



93 



I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My aiii kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Per- 
cy's ballad to the air, Naiiie 0, is just. It is be- 
sides, ptrhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the 
English language. But kt me remark to you, that 
in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, 
there is a pastoral simplicity, a something, that one 
may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal mu- 
sic, to which a dash of our native tongue and man- 
ners is particularly, nay, peculiarly, apposite. For 
this reason, and, upon my ho)iOur, for this reasoTi 
alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, 
my opinion is yours, fn.vly yours, to approve, or 
reject, as you please) that my ballad of Nanie 
might perliaps do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of taking my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own reputa- 
tion in the business of authorship ; and liave no- 
thing to be pleased or offended at, in your adop- 
tion or rejection of my verses. Though you should 
reject one half of what I give jou, I sliall be 
pleased with your adopting the other half, and 
shall continue to serve you with the same assi- 
duity. 

In the printed copy of my Nanie 0, the name 
ef the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 



after-times to hare given them a polish, yet that 
polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps 
alone cared for them, would have defaced llie le- 
gend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed 
on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as thef 
say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across th' Atlantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine : 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 

I hao sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 
And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow .' 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

O plight me your faith, my Man-, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual aifection to join. 
And curst be the cause that shall part us. 

The hour, and the moment o' time* I 



Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks 
on this business; but I have just now an opportu- 
nity of conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, 
an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my 
best compliments to honest Allan, Good be wi' 
ye, &e. 

Frldaij night. 



Galla ffater, and Auld Rob Morris, I think, will 
most probably be the next subject of my musings. 
However, even ou my verses, speak out your ciiti- 
cisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to 
stand aloof, the imcomplj-ing bigot of opinidti-cte, 
b«t cordially to join issue with you, in the further- 
ance of the work. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Saturday morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare this morn- 
ing before my conveyance goes away, I will give 
you Nanie at length. 

Your remarks on Ewe-bughts, Marion, are just ; 
still it has obtained a place among our more clas- 
sical Scottish songs ; and what with many beau- 
ties in its composition, and more pnjudices in its 
favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking of 
going to the West Indies, I took the following 
farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has 
nothing of the merits of E-we-bughts ; but it will 
fill up this page. You must know, that all my 
earlier love-songs were the breathings of ai-dent 
passion, and though it might have been easy in 

" When my ploughman comes liame at ev'n, 

He's often wet and weary ; 
Cast oT the wet, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my deary." E. 



November 8th, 1792. 
If you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in 
your collection, shall be poetry of the first merit, 
I am afraid you will find mere difficulty in the 
undertaki;;g, than you are aware of. There is a 
peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a ne- 
cessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or 
what I would call the featvre-notes of the tune, 
that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost 
insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air. 
My xvife''s a ivanton rucc thing, if a few lines smooth 
and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can 
expect. The following were made extenipore to 
it ; and though, on farther study, I might give 
you something more profound, yet it might not 
suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink. 

* This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in 
his collection. It deserves however to be presei*ved. 

E. 



94 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never loe'd a dearer, 

And neist my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythly bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



I have just been looking over the Collier''s bonny 
Dochter ; and, if the following rhapsody, which I 
composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire 

girl, Miss , as she passed through this place to 

England, will suit your taste better than the Col- 
lier Lassie, fall on and welcome. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her, is to love her. 

And love biit her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thj' subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore ihee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that m ad belai.g thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfoi-tune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie 1 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and an- 
other to dishonour. Farewell, &c. 



No. VI. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune—" Katharine Ogie.^^ 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers^ 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early I 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance, 

That dwalt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that loe'd rae dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pa- 
thetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, 
and deserve, a greater effort. However, they are 
all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of 



My dear sir, 14th November, 1792. 

I agree with you that the song, Katharine Ogie, 
is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether un- 
worthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it ; 
but the awkward sound Ogie, recurring so often 
in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing 
sentiment into the piece. The foi-egoing song 
pleases myself ; I think it is in my happiest man- 
ner ; you will see, at first glance, that it suits the 
air. The subject of the song is one of the most 
interesting passages of my youthful days ; and, I 
own that I should be much flattered to see the 
verses set to an air, which would insure celebrity.. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice 
of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over 
the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Mor- 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



ris. I have adopted the two first verses, and am 
going on with the song on a new plan, which pro- 
mises pretty well. I take up one or another. Just 
as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet- 
lug ; and do you, sans cerenionie, make what use 
you choose of the productions. Adieu ! &c. 



nothing better than the following : do you mend 
it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, whip it 
up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing. 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Dear sir, Edinburgh, Kov. 1792. 

I was just going to write to you, thi.t on meet- 
ing with your Nanie I had fallen violently in love 
with her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the 
charming rustic to me, in the dress you wish her 
to appear before the public. She does you great 
credit, and will soon be admitted into the best 
company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is so 
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and vei-y pleas- 
ing : so that, if the singer stops at the end of two 
stanzas, it is a pleasure lost, ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and man- 
ners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appro- 
priate to our melodies, yet I shall be able to pre- 
sent a considerable number of the very flowers of 
English song, well adapted to those melodies, which, 
in England at least, will be the means of recom- 
mending them to still greater attention, than they 
have procured there. But you will observe, my 
l»lan is, that every air shall in the first place have 
verses wholly by Scottish poets ; and that those of 
English writers shall follow as additional songs, 
for the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; I ad- 
mire it, and never meant to supplant it. All I 
requested was, that you would try your hand on 
some of the inferior stanzas, which are apparently 
no part of the original song ; but this I do not 
m-ge, because the song is of sufficient length, 
though those inferior stanzas be oimtted, as they 
will be by the singer of taste. You must not think 
I expect all the songs to be of superlative merit ; 
that were an unreasonable expectation. I am sen- 
sible that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen 
verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on Bonie Leslie : it is a thousand 
times better than the Collier^- Lassie. " The deil 
he cou'd na scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric and 
happy thought. Do you not think, however, that 
the names of such old hei'oes as Alexander, sound 
rather queer, unless in pompous or mere burlesque 
verse ? Instead of the line, " And never made ani- 
ther," I would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made 
sic anither ;" and I would fain have you substitute 
some other line for " Return to Caledonie," in the 
last verse, because I think this alteration of the 
ci-thography, and of the sound of Caledonie, disfi- 
gures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song. My tvife^s a winsome wee 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good : but 
I do not admire the other eight, because four of 
them are a bare repetition of the first verses. I 
have been trying to spin a stanza, but could make 



Tho' warld's care we share o't 
And may see ineikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythly bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself of the 
liberty which you condescend to allow me, by 
speaking frtely what I think. Be assured, it is 
not my disposition to pick out the faults of any 
poem or picture I see : my^ first and chief object 
is to discover and be delighted with the beauties of 
the piece. If I sit down to examine critically, and 
at leisure, what pt rhaps you have written in haste, 
I may happen to observe careless lines, the re-pe- 
rusal of which, might lead you to improve them. 
The wren will often -see what has been overlooked 
by the eagle. 

I remain yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are just 
come to hand : they breathe the genuine spirit of 
poetry, and, like the music, will last forever. Such 
verses, united to such an air, with the delicate har- 
mony of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat 
worthy of being presented to Apollo himself. I 
have heard the sad story of your Mary : you al- 
ways seem inspired when you write of her. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, 1st Dec. 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nanie are perfectly 
right. So are those of Mij ivife^s a ivanton ivee 
thing. Your alteration of the second stanza is a 
positive improvement. Now, my dear sir, with the 
freedom which characterizes our correspondence, 
I must not, cannot alter Bonie Leslie. You are 
right, the word " Alexander" makes the line a lit- 
tle uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, 
in the sublime language of scripture, that " he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For nature made her what she is. 

And never made anither" (such a person as she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than " Ne'er 
made sic anither." However it is immaterial : 
make it either way*. " Caledonie," I agree with 
you, is not so good a word as could be wished, 
though it is sanctioned in three or four instances 

* Mr. Thomson has decided on Ne'rr made sic 
anither. E. 



-96 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot help it. In short, 
that species of stanza is the most dilHcult that I 
have ever tried. 

The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the poet gives 
the Ixvofcrst stanzas as before, p. 92, ivith the fol- 
lowing in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the merning sun. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo • 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gi*ey. 

It maks ray heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



I am interrupted. 



Yoursj SiQ. 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd : 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig*, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
6pak o' lowpin o'er a limi ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Tune and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ; 
She may gae to— France for me I 

Ha, ha, &c. 



No. IX. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOINISON. 

AULD ROB MORRIS*. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has go^\ d in his coffers, he has owsen and kiue. 
And ae bonie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fi-esh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But oh .' she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg gi'ew sick— as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief, a sigh she brings ; 
And O ! her een, they spak sic tilings ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, <h'c, 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, is'c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smooi-'d his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty bailh. 

Ha, ha, the -wooing o'?t. 



Ath December, 1792. 
The foregoing, I submit, my dear sir, to your 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn them, 
as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is 
that kind of light-horse gallop of an aii*, which 
precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling 
ieature. 



had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ; 
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss. 
As now my distraction no words can express 1 



No. X. 

Mr. BURNS to Mi-. THOMSON. 

SONG. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Tune—" / had a horse.' 



Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the rvooing o''t, 
On bljthe yule night when we were fu', 

Ha, ha, the 7vooing o''t ; 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abiegh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

* The two first lines are taken from an old bal- 
lad—the rest is wholly original. E. 



O poortith cauld, and restless love, 
Ye w reck my peace between ye ; 

Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

* A well-known rock in tlie frith of Cljde. E. 

t This has nothing in common with the old li- 
centious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, 
and part of the third— the rest is vhollv original. 

E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



97 



Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 
Depend on Fortune's sliiniitg ? 

This wai'ld's wealth when I think on, 
It's pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

ifie, fie on silly cewaid man. 

That he should be the slave o't. 
why, &c. 

Her een sae bonie blue betray. 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
rvhy, &c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him? 
O wha can prudence think upon_, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate* .' 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bog'les wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearer bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lad* on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Eitric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I loe him better; 

And I'll bf his, and he'll be mine. 
The boiuiie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 

And iho' I hae nae meikle tocher 5 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

"We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasui'e ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



Jan. 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear sir. 
How comes on your publication ? will these two 
foregoing be of any service to you. I should like 
to know what songs you priut to each tune, be- 
sides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would 
wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you- 
l>ub!ish.- You know, it is my trade ; and a man in 
the way of his trade may suggest useful hints, 

* " The wild-wood Indian's fate" in the original 
MS. E. 



tliat escape men of much superior parts and en- 
dowments in other things. 

If you meet with n»y dear and much-valued C, 
greet him, in my name, with the compliments of 
the season. 

Yours, &c. 



No. XI. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 20, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear sir, and thousands 
will be happy to see the charming songs you have 
sent me. Many merry returns of the season to you, 
and may you long continue among the sons and 
daughters of Caledonia, to delight them, and to 
honour yourself ! 

The four last songs with which you favoured 
me, for Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla 
water, and Cauld kail, are admirable. Duncan is 
indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear 
liim to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the hap- 
py shepherdess in Galla water, exhibit an excellent 
contrast : they speak from genuine feeling, and 
powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally in 
view, was limite«l, but I now resolve to include 
every Scotch air and song worth singing ; leaving 
none behiiul but mere gleanings, to which the pub- 
lishers of omnegatherum are welcome. I would ra- 
ther be the editor of a collection from which no- 
tliing could be taken away, than of one to which 
nothing could be added. We intend presenting 
the subscribers Avith two beautiful stroke engrav- 
ings ; the one characteristic of the plaintive, and 
the other of the lively songs ; and I have Dr. 
Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject of 
our national music, if his health will permit him 
to write it. As a number of om* songs liave doubt- 
less been called foi'th by particular events, or by 
the charms of peerless damsels, there must be 
many curious anecdotes relatnig to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I believe, 
knew more of this than any body, for he joined 
to the pursuits of an antiquary a taste for poetry, 
besides being a man of the world, and possessing 
an enthusiasm for music beyond most of hjs con- 
temporaries. He was quite pleased with this plan 
of mine, for I may say it has been solely managed 
by me, and we had several long conversations 
about it, when it was in embryo. If I could sim- 
ply mention the name of the heroine of each song, 
and the incident which occasioned the verses, it 
would be gratifying. Pray will you send me any 
information of this sort, as well with regard tu 
your own songs, as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, wUl bo joined tlic; delicate acconxpa- 
niments, &c. of Pleyel. To liwsc of the comic and 
humorous class, I think accompanimeuts scarcely 
necessary ; ihcy are chiefly fitted for the convivi- 
ality of the festive board, and a tuneful voice, with 
a proper delivery of the words, renders them per- 
fect. Nevertheless, to these I propose adding bass 
N 



98 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



accompaniments, because then they are fitted ei- 
ther for singing or for instrumental performance, 
when there happens to be no singer. I mean to 
employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke to set 
the bass to these, which he assures me he will do 
con atnoj-e, and with much greater attention than 
he ever bestowed on any thing of the kind. But 
for this last class of airs, I will not attempt to find 
more than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started I 
know not how many difficulties, about writing for 
the airs I sent to him, because of the peculiarity 
of their measure, and the trammels they impose on 
Ills flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the 
only one I have yet got from him, being for the 
fine air " Lord Gregory." The Scots verses print- 
ed with that air, are taken from the middle of an 
old ballad, called. The Loss of Lochroijan, which I 
do not admire. I have set down the air therefore 
as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs 
are replete with wit and humour ; might not the 
best of these be included in our volume of comic 
songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT. 



be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at tit* 
particular shi'ine of every Scots muse, 

I do not doubt but you might make a very va- 
luable collection of Jacobite songs, but would it 
give no offence ? In the mean time, do not you 
think that some of them, particularly The suw^- 
tail to Geordie, as an air, with otlier words, might 
be well worth a place in your collection of lively 
songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it 
would be proper to have one set of Scots words to 
evei-y air, and that the set of words to wliich the 
notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a pas- 
toral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots 
words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
least to my taste, and I will add, to every genuine 
Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic 
sprightliness of our native music, than any En- 
glish verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi^ 
tion to your work. His Gregory is beautiful. I 
have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, wliich are at your service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter : 
that would be pi'esumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, 
more of the ballad simplicity in it. 



FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 



Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give me 
a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is most 
enchantingly pathetic, and Dunca/; Gray possesses 
native genuine humour: " spak o' lowpin o'er a 
lin," is a line of itself that should make you im- 
mortal. I sometimes hear of you from our mutual 
friend C, who is a most excellent fellow, and pos- 
sesses, above all nien I know, the charm of a most 
obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, 
about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished 
productions, religious and amorous ; I know from 
experience how irksome it is to copy. If you will 
get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them 
over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money 
be asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not 
beti'ay your confidence. 

I am jour hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XII. 



LORD GREGORY. 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower. 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile from her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw. 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grovr^ 

By bonie Irwine-side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow. 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

2Uh Jaiiiiary, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. 
JDr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. On 
my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to the 
doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, 
&c. of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's 
anecdotes, I have by me, taken down in the course 
of my acquaintance with him from his own mouth. 
I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my 
several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a 
pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, Lochaber, and the Brat's of Bal- 
Menden, excepted. So far as the locality, either from 
•the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could 



Hard is tliy heart, lord Gregory, 

And fiintj' is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heav'n tliat flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering tluinders from above, 

Your Mallini victim see ! 
But spare, anu pardon my fause love, 

His wraiigs to heaven and me* ! 

* The sung of Dr. Walcptt on the same subject 
is as follows. 

Ah ope, lord Gregory, thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sighs. 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 
And lightnings cl(iave the skies. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



99 



My most respectful compliments to the honour- 
able gentleman, who favoured nie with a postscript 
in your last. He shall hear from me and receive 
his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



20th March, 1793. 



I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very 
remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It 
is impossible (at least 1 feel it so in my stinted 
powers) to be always original, entertaining, and 
witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ? 
I shall be out of all teuiper with you by and by. 
I have always looked on myself as the prince of 
indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac- 
cordingly ; and I will not, caunot bear rivalship 
from you, nor any body else. 



MARY MORISON. 

Tune—" Bide ye yet,'''' 

Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour; 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blythly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fitir, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang- them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 

Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
Whase only faut is loving thee ? 

If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
At least be pity to me shown; 

A thought ungentle canna be 
, The thought o' Mary Morison. 



No. XIV. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

March, 1793. 
WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Now tired with wandering, baud awa hame; 

Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting ; 

It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e : 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Wil- 
lie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 
O how your wild horroi's a lover alarms ! 

Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nanie, 

O still flow between us, thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But dying believe that my Willie's my ain! 



My dear sir, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile works. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall peld her room. 

Alas"! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 
That once was priz'd by thee : 

Think of the ring by yonder burn 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 



I leave it to you, my dear sir, to detennirie 
whether the above, or the old Thro' the lang miiir 
be the best. 



No. XV. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH I 



IVith alterations. 



But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow. 

Far kinder than thy heart. 



Oh open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh* ; 
Tho' thou liast been false, I'll ever prove tr^^ue. 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh. 



It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to men- Cauld is the blast upon my jiale cheek, 

Jion, that his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw But caulder thy love for me, Oh : 

it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the — ■ — — — ■ 

same subject, which is derived from au olfl Scot,- * Thjs second line was originally, 

tish ballad of uncertain origin. E. Jf love it may na be, Oh ! 



E. 



Uc^w. 



100 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



The frost that freezes tlie life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh. 

Tlie wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh : 
False friends, false love, farewell I for raair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh. 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide. 
She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh : 

R^y true love she ciied, and sank down by his side. 
Never to rise again, Oh. 

I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



might serve up some of them to you with your 
own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There 
is so much delightful ftmcy in the symphonies, 
and such a delicate simplicity in the accompani- 
ments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your mirse: your Lord Gregory-, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than Pe- 
ter's, beautiful as liis is ! Your Here tnva JVillic 
must undergo some alterations to suit the air. 
Mr. Erskine and I have been conning it over ; 
he will suggest what is necessary to make them 
a fit match*. 

* WANDERING WILLIE, 



No. XVI. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune—" Bonie Dundee.''^ 

True l>earted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her eeu he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms s/ie alone is a stranger ! 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



No. XVII. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 

1 will not recognize the title you give your- 
self, " the prince of indolent correspondents ;" 
but if the adjective were taken away, I think the 
title would then fit you exactly. It gives me 
pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes with 
respect to most of the songs : these will be a lite- 
rary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which I 
believe will be found nearly complete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs, 
which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch 
verses. If any others occur to you, better adapted 
to the character of tlie airs, pray mention them, 
when you favour me with your strictures upon 
every thing else relating to tlie work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs with liis symphonies and accompaniments 
added to them. I wish you were here, that I 



As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there arva, baud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

IVinter-ruinds bleiv loud and caul at our parting. 
Fears for my M^illie brought tears in my e'e. 

Welcome now sinmier, and welcome my Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Fest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms J 

Bloxv soft, ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows I 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh if he''s faithless, and minds na his Nanie, 
Flow still between us, thou dark-heaving main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. 

Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted 
some of these alterations, and rejected others. 
The last edition is as follows : 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom, my ain only deaiie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie bi'ought teai-s in my e'e, 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms^ 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nanie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roai'ing main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 

Several of the alterations seem to be of little 
importance in themselves, and were adopted, it 
may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the 
words better to the music. The Homeric epithet 
for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by ^lr» Er- 



]Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



101 



This gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no straiiger to, is so well pleased 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
■work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and 
has already written four songs for it, which, by 
his own desire, I send for your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

When ivild ivar^s deadly blast ivas blown. 

Air—" The Mill mill 0." 

When Mild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 

And mony a widow mourning*, 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

1 hat caught my youthful fancy : 

At length I reach'd the bonny glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling .' 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

O ! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom : 



tkine, is in itself more beautiful, as w-ell perhaps 
as more sublime, than 7uide-r oaring, which he has 
retained ; but as it is only applicable to a placid 
state of the sea, or at most to the swell left on its 
surface after the storm is over, it gives a picture 
of that element not so well adapted to the ideas 
of eternal sepai-ation, which the fair mourner is 
supposed to imprecate. From the original song 
of Here arva IVillie, Burns has borrowed nothing 
but the second line and part of the first. The 
superior excellence of this beautiful poem will, 
it is hoped, justify the different editions of it 
which we have given. E. 

* Variation, lines 3d and 4th : 

And ejes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning. 

See No. XXIV. 



My purse is light, I've far to pang, 
And fain wad be thy lodger ; 

I've serv'd my king and country lang, 
Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare. 

Ye freely shall partake it. 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd— she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily ; 

She sank within my arms and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 

By Him who made yon sun and sky- 
By whom true love's regarded, 

I am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded ] 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailin plenish'd fairly; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the mail 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of djinger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 



Air—" bonie Lass jvill you lie in a Barrack*'' 

O ken ye w hat Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strappin, the miller was ruddy; 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the gude-fellow and taen the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and lo%'in|: ;* 
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving : 
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the lore that's fix'd on a mailin ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's pai-le, 
lint, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



102 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



No. XIX. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

yth April, 1703. 

Thank you, mj"^ dear sir, for your packet. You 
cannot imagine how much tliis business of com- 
posing for your putjlication has ackled to my en- 
joyments. What with my early attachment to 
ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making is now as 
completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortification 
was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till 
I come to the limit of my race (God grant that 
I may take the right side of the winning post!), 
and then cheerfully looking back on the honest 
folks with whom 1 have been happy, I shall say, 
or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae been," and, 
raising my last looks to tlie whole human race, 
the last words of the voice of Coila* shall be 
" Good night and joy be wi' you a'!" So much 
for my last words: now for a few present re- 
marks, as they have occurred at random, on look- 
ing over your list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o'er the 
vnoor, and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; 
but in my opinion— pardon me, revered shade of 
Hamsay ! the song is unworthy of the divine air. 
I shall try to make, or mend. For eve?- Foriiuie 
■Tvilt thou pi-ove, is a charming song; but Logan 
burn and Logan hracs, are sweetly suscejitible of 
rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and if I 
succeed, the other song may class among the Eng- 
lish ones. I remember the two last lines of a 
verse in some of the old songs of Logan IVate?- 
(for I know a good many different ones) which I 
think pretty : 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

My Patie is a jtover gay, is unequal. " His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy exi)ression in- 
deed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your 
book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the same tune, 
does not altogether please me, but if I can mend 
it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I 
\i\\\ submit it to your consideration. The lass 
o* Pafie''s mill is one of Ramsay's best songs ; 
but there is one loose sentiment in it, which ray 
much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine, will take into 
his critical consideration. In sir J. Sinclaii-'s Sta- 
tistical volumes, are two claims, one, I think, 
from Aberdeenshire, and the otlier from Ayrshire, 
for the honour of this song. The following anec- 
dote, which I had from the pi-esent sir William 

* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila, 
jn imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself 
the Voice of Cona. Sae merry as tve a' hae been, 
and Good night and joy be ■wi'' you a\ are (he 
•^ftaraes of two Scottish tiines. E. 



Cunningham, of Roberlland, who had it of the 
late John, earl of Loudon, I can, on such authori- 
ties, believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon casile 
with the then earl, father to earl John ; and one 
forenoon, riding, or walking out together, his 
lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot 
on Irwinc water, still called, " Patie's Mill," 
where a bonie lass was " tedding hay, bareliead- 
ed on tlie green." My lord observed to Allan, 
that it would be a fine tlieme for a song. Ramsay 
took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; but, 
for consistency's sake, alter the name " Adonis." 
Were there ever such banns published, as a pur- 
pose of marriage between Adonis and Mary ? I 
agree with you that my song, There^s nought but 
care on every hand, is much superior to Poortith 
cauld. The original song The Mill mill 0, though 
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible ; 
still, I like the title, and think a Scottish song 
would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen 
song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English 
set. The Banks of the Dee, is, you know, lite- 
rally, Langolee, to slow time. The song is well 
enough, but has some false imagery in it, for in- 
stance, 

" And sw.eetly the nightuigale sung from the free." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
low bush, but never from a tree; and, in the se- 
cond place, there never was a nightingale seen, 
or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic ru- 
ral imagery is always comparatively flat. If I 
could hit on another stanza, equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honesUy avow that 
I think it a superior song*. John Anderson my jo — 
the song to this tune, in Johnson's Museum, is 
my composition, and I think it not my worst: 
if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your collec- 
tion of sentimental and jiathetic songs, is, in my 
opinion, very complete ; but not so your comic 
ones. Where are Ttillochgorum, Lumps o' pud- 
din, Tibbie Fowler, and several others, which, in 
my humble judgment, are well worthy of preser- 
vation ? There is also one sentimental song of 
mine in the Museum, which never was known out 
of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. It is 
called Craigieburn Wood; and, in the ojnnion of 
Mr. Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. 
He is quite an enthusiast about it ; and I Avould 
take his taste in Scottish music against the taste 
of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in 
your list, though they are certainly Irish. 5"//^/;- 
herds I have lost my love, is to me a heavenly 
air— what would you think of a set of Scottish 
verses to it ? I have made one to it a good while 

* It will be found in the course of this eorres* 
pondence, that the bard produced a second stanza 
of The ChevuHer''s Lament (to which ht* here al- 
ludes), worthy of the first. E. 



JVL-. GEORGE THOMSON". 



103 



ago, AvLich I think **»*»*»*•*•»" 
but in its original stale it is not quite a lady's 
song'. I inclose an altered, not amended copy for 
you, if you chuse to set tlie tune to it, and let tlie 
Irish verses follow*. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his Lone 
Vale is divine. 

Yours, 8cc. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
hints. 



No. XX. 
Tsix. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I rejoice to find, my dear sii-, that ballad-ma- 
king continues to be your hobby-horse.— Great 
pity 'twould be, were it otherwise. I hope you 
will amble it away for many a year, and " witch 
the world with your horsemanship." 

I know there are a good many livehj songs of 
merit, that I have not put down in the list sent 
you ; but I have them all in ray eye. My Patie 
is a lover gay, though a little unequal, is a natu- 
ral and very pleasing song, and I humbly think 
we ought not to displace or alter it, except the 
iTist stanzaf. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

I have yours, my dear sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my de- 
sultory way of saying whatever comes uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting at 
the beginning what fiddlers call, a starting-note, 
is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather," 

You may alter to 

* Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of 
this song, even in its altered state. It does Jiot 
appear in the correspondence ; but it is probably 
eue to be found in his MSS. beginaiing, 

*' Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Ifestreen lay on this breast of Jiiine, 

The gowden locks of Anna.'' 

It is highly characteristic of our bard, but the 
sU'ain of sentiment does not correspond wiih tlie 
air, to which he proposes it should be allied. E. 

t The original ktter from Mr. Thomson co?i- 
tilins many observations on the Scottish songs, 
and on the manner of adapting the words to the 
music, which, .it his desire, are suppressed. The 
subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to several 
of these observations. E. 



" Braw, braw lads oil Yiurow braes; 
Ye wander, &c." 

]\Iy song. Here awa, there awa, as amended^ 
Mr. Erskjue, I entirely approve of, and retwn 
you*. •* 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing i)i whlcJi it is, in my opinion, reprohen.- 
sible. You know I ought to know something of 
my own trade. Of patlios, sentiment, and point, 
you are a com i)lete judge ; but there is a quality 
more necessary than elthei-, in a song, and whifh is 
the very essence of a ballad, I mean sinijilicity : 
now, if I mistake not, tliis last feature you are a 
little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been al- 
ways equally happy in his pieces : still I cannot 
approve of taking such liberties with an autlior as 
Mr. W. pi-oposes doing with The last time I came 
o^er the moor. Let a poet, if he chuses, take up 
the idea of anotlier, and work it into a piece of 
his own ; but to mangle the works of the poor 
bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute forever, 
in the dark and narrow house ; by heaven 'twould 
be sacrilege ! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an 
improvement; but, I know Mr. W. well, and 
esteem him much ; let him mend the song, as the 
Highlander mended his gun : he gave it a new 
stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out impropev 
stanzas, whei-e that can be done without spoiling 
the whole. One stanza in The lass o' Patie''s mill, 
must be left out : the song will be nothing worse 
for it. I am not sure if we can take the same 
liberty with Cum rigs are bonie. Perhaps it might 
want the last stanza, and be the better for it. 
Cauld kail in Abenleen, you must leave with me 
yet a while. I have vowed to have a song to that 
air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in 
the verses, Poortith cauld and restless love, Av 
any rate, my other song. Green gro7v the rashes, 
will never suit. That song is current in Scot- 
land under the old titlv, and to the men-y old tune 
of that name ; which of course would mar the 
progress of jour song to celebrity. Your book 
will be the standard of Scots songs for tlie fu- 
tui-e : let this idea ever keep your judgment ou 
the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonie Dundee. I send you also 
a ballad to the Mill miil Of. 

The last time I came o'er the moor, I would fain 
attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ram- 
say's be the English set. You shall hear from me 
soon. When you go to London on this business, 
can you come by Dumfries ? I have still several 
I^IS. Scots airs by me which I have j)iekt uj), 
m(»stly from the singing of country lasses. They 



* The i-eader has already seen, that Burns did 
not finally adopt all of Mr. Erskine's altera- 
tions. E. 

t The song to the tune of Dunie Dtrndce, i<i 
that in No. XVI. The ballad to the Mill mill O, 
is that beginning, 

'• When wild war's deadly blasts were blawn." E, 



104 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



please me vastly ; but your learned lugs* would 
perhaps be displeased with the very feature for 
which I like them. I call them simple ; you 
would pronounce them silly. Do jtju know a fine 
air called Jackie Humect lament ? I have a song 
of considerable merit TO that air. I'll inclose you 
both the son J and tune, as I had them ready to 
send to Johnson's Museumt. I send you likewise, 
to me, a beautiful little air, which I had takeu 
down from viva voce\. 

Adieu! 



No. XXII. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
My dear sir, 

I had scarcely put my last letter into the post 
cfflice, when I took up the subject of The last 
time I came o'er the moor, and ere I slept drew 
the outlines of the foregoing^. How far I have 
succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other oc- 
casion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in your 
elegant and superb work ; but to be of service to 
the work, is my first wish. As I have often told 
you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of 
compliment to me, to insert any thing of mine. 
One hint let me give you— whatever Mr. Pleyel 
does, let him not alter one iota of the original 
Scottish airs ; I mean, in the song department ; 
but let our national music preserve its native fea- 
tures. They are, I own, frequently wild and ir- 
reducible to the more modern rules ; but on that 
vei-y eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part 
of their effect. 



No. XXIII. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, my dear sir, for your last 
two letters, and the songs which accompanied 
them. I am always both instructed and enter- 
tained by your observations ; and the frankness 
with which you speak out your mind, is to me 
highly agreeable. It is very possible I may not 
have the true idea of simplicity in composition. 
I confess there are several songs of Allan Ram- 
say's, for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person, more conversant than I 
have been with country people, would pei-haps 

* Ears. 

t The song here mentioned is that given in 
No. XVIII. ken ye what Meg o' the mill has 
gotten. This song is surely Mr. Bums's own 
writing, though he does not generally praise his 
own songs so much.— 2^o^e by Mr. Thomson. 

X The air here mentioned, is tliat for which he 
wrote the ballad of Bonny Jean, to be found p. 
106. E. 

§ The song alluded to here will be found in a 
subsequent part of this volume. E. 



call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if co- 
pied precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agreeable 
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
were easy to enlarge ; but, at present, suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the aits. 1 
Avill gladly appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad fVhen -wild war's deadly blast, &c. to the 
Mill mill 0, as well as the two other songs to their 
respective airs ; but the third and fourth line of 
the first verse must undergo some little alteration 
in order to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter 
a single note of the songs. That would be absurd 
indeed .' With the airs which he introduces into 
the sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as 
he pleases, but that has nothing to do with the 
songs. 



P. S. I wish you would do as you proposed 
with your Rigs of Barley. If the loose sentiments 
are thi-eshed out of it, I will find an air for it ; 
but as to this there is no hurry. 

No. XXIV. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of 
mine, in whom I am much interested, has fallen a 
sacrifice to these accursed times, you will easily 
allow that it might unhinge me for doing any 
good among ballads. My own loss, as to pecu- 
niary matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin of a 
much loved friend, is a loss indeed. Pardon my 
seeming inattention to your last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines, in the Mill 
mill 0*. What you think a defect, I esteem as 
a positive beauty ; so you see how doctors differ. 
I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can mus- 
ter, go on with your commands. 

You know Eraser, the hautboy player in Edin- 

* The lines were the third and fourth. See 
p. 101. 

" Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning." 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and 
the first number of Mr. Thomson's Musical IVork 
was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by Mr. 
Erskine's advice, to substitute for them in that 
publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beamed 
Ihat had been bleared with moui*ning.'* 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are 
inferior to the original. This is the only altera- 
tion adopted by Mr. Thomson, which Burns did 
not approve, or at least assent to. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



105 



burgh— he is here, instructing' a band of music for 
a fencible corps quartered in this coui.trj-. Among- 
many of liis airs that please me, there is one, well 
known as a reel by the name of The Qitaker''s 
PVifc ; and which I remember a grand aunt of 
mine used to sing, by the name of Liggeram cosh, 
my bontiic ivte lass. Mr. Fraser plays it slow, 
and with an expression that quite charms me. I 
became such an enthusiast about it, that I made a 
song for it, which I here subjoin ; and inclose 
Fraser 's set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, 
they are at your service ; if not. return me the 
tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
tliink the song is not in my worst manner. 

Tune—" Liggeram Cosh."' 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the Iambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play. 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heav^- is the task, 

Hopeless Ioa e declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but gloAvr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sbd. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



But now thy flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie M'int< r, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the men*y month o' May 

Has made our hills arid valleys gay; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, • 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe morning lifts liis rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy: 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, ' ' 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within you milk-white hawthorn biisli, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings Iiere, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's ci*y* ; 
But soon may peace bring happy days 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes i 



Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment, in Witherspoon's collection of Scots 
songs ? 



Air—" Hmghie Graham.'''' 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

June 25th, 1793. 
Have )ou ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom against 
kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste 
out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
kind to-day, I recollected the air of Logan IVater ; 
and it occurred to me that its querulous melody 
probably had its origin from the plaintive indig- 
nation of some swelling, sufltring heart, fired at 
the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, 
and overwhelmed with private distress, the conse- 
quence of a country's ruin. If I have done any 
thing at all like justice to my feelings, the fol- 
lowing song, composed in three-quarters of an 
hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to 
have some merit. 

Tune—" Logan Water:' 

O, Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 



" O gin my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa'. 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phebus' light." 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, 
unless you gave it a place. I have often triett to 
eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing 
myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind- 
legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I 
frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at all, 
they might be first in place ; as every poet who 
knows any thing of his trade, will husband his 
best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

* Originally, 

" Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries." F-. 
O 



106 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude I 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



No. xxvr. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 



No. XXVII. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

My dear sir, Jfily 2d, 1793. 

I have just finished the following ballad, an* 
as I do think it in my best stjle, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns's wood-note 7vlld, is vei*5' fond of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
3-oung ladies of the first fashion here. If you do 
not like the air enough to give it a place in'your 
collection, please return it. The song you may 
keep, as I remember it. 



Monday, 1st July, 1793. 

I am extremely sorry, my good sir, that any 
tiling should happen to unhinge you. The times 
are terribly out of tune, and when harmony will 
be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs just published, will be 
dispatched to you along with this. Let me be 
favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker''s Wife; it is quite 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of 
songs, with such airs added to it as you iJiink 
ought to be included? The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentlemen who originally 
agreed to join the speculation having requested 
to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot be. The 
superior excellence of the work, will create a ge- 
neral demand for it, as soon as it is properly 
known. And a\ ere the sale even sloAver than it 
promises to be, I should be somewhat compensa- 
ted for my labour, by the jjleasure I shall receive 
from the music. I cannot express how much I 
am obliged to you for the exquisite new songs 
you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are 
a poor return for what you have done : as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must suffer 
me to inclose a small mark of' my gratitude*, and 
to repeat it afterwai'ds when I find it convenient. 
Do not return it, for by heaven if you do, our 
correspondence is at an end : and though this 
would be no loss to you, it would mar the publi- 
cation, which, under your auspices, cannot fail to 
be respectable and interesting. 



Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional ve -ses 
10 the old fragment, and for your excellent song 
in Logan water: Thomson's truly elegant one will 
follow for the English singer. Your apostrophe 
to statesmen, is admirable, but I am not sure if it 
is quite suitable to the supposed gentle character 
of the fair mourner who speaks it. 

* 5:. 



There was a lass and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest made was bonie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,' 

And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 
The blythest bird upon the bush, 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwJiite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers. 
And love v/ill break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang e'er witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So ti-embling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonie Jean*. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be. 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love 

Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prcst, 
And whisper"d thus his tale o' love : 

* In the original MS. our poet asks Mr, Thom- 
son if this stanza is not original. E. 



Mr. GED 



RGE THOMSON. 



107 



Jennie fair, I loe thee clear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mainniie's cot, 
And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At harn or bj-re thou shalt na drudge. 
Or naething- else to trouble tliee ; 

But stray amang' the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to say him na : 
At length she bhish'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye betyvfeen them twa. 

1 have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in ray notes, the names of the fair-ones, 
the themes of my songs. 1 do not mean the name 
at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity 
may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. daugh- 
ter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscribers. I 
have not painted her in the rank which she holds 
in life, but in the dress and character of a cotta- 
S«r. 



No. XXVIII. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Jiifij, 1793. 

I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me 
in my own eyes. However, to i-eturn it would sa- 
vour of affectation ; but, as to any more traffic of 
that debtor and creditor kind ; I swear by that 
Honour which crowns the upright statue of Ro- 
bert Biir7is''s Integrity— on the least motion of it, 
I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, 
and from that moment commence entire stranger 
to you I Biirns's character for generosity of sen- 
timent and independence of mind, will, I trust, 
long outlive any of his wants, which the cold, un- 
feeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care 
that such a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, 
is admirably Avritten ; only jour partiality to me 
has made you say too much : however, it will bind 
me down to double every effort, in the future pro- 
gress of the work. The following arfe a few re- 
marks on the songs, in the list you sent me. I ne- 
ver copy what I write to you, so I may be often 
tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

The flowers oj" the fore.it, is as charming a poem ; 
and should be, and must b?, set to the notes ; but, 
though out of your rule, thy three stanzas, begin- 
ning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize 
the author of them, who is an old lady of my ac- 
quaintance, and at this moment living in Edin- 




burgh. She is a IHrs. Cockbum ; I forget of what 
place ; but from Roxburgh-shire. What a charm- 
ing apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortime, why this cruel sporting, 
■yVhy, why torment us— poor sons of a day 

The old ballad, / ivish I -tvere where Ht 
is silly, to contemptibility*. My alteratio' 
in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, 
in his, what he calls ancient ballads (many of them 
notorious, though beautiful enough forgeries) has 
the best set. It is full of his own interpolations, 
but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration, 
a few songs which may have escaped your hurried 
notice. In the mean time, allow me to congratu- 
late you now, as a brother of the quill. You have 
committed your character and fame ; which will 
now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious 
jury of the So7is and Daughters of Taste— all whom 
poesy can please, or music charm. 

Being a bard by nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by the 
spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great-grand- 
child will hold up your volumes, and say with hon- 
est pride, " This so much admired selection was 
the work of my ancestor." 



No. XXIX. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Dear sir, Editiburgh, Ist Aug. 1795. 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last two 
letters, and am happy to find you are quite pleased 
with the appearance of the first book. When yon 
come to hear the songs sung and accomiianied, you 
will be charmed with them. 

The honie briicket Lassie, certainly deserves bet- 
ter verses, aiid I hope you Avill match her. Cauld 
kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, and se- 
veral of the livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure: 
these are peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts : 
besides, you'll notice, that in airs of this sort the 
singer can always do greater justice to the poet, 
than in the slower airs of The Bush aboon Tra- 
quir. Lord Gregory, and the like ; for in the man- 
ner the latter are frequently sung, you must be 
contented with the sound, without the sense. In- 
deed both the airs and words are disguised by the 
very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which 
they are too often performed : they lose animation 
and expression altogether, and instead of speaking 
to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upou 
the ear, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad. There was a lass and she was fair, 
is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubtedly 
grace my collection. 



* There is a copy of this ballad given in the ac- 
count of the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleeming (which 
contains the tomb of fair Helen Irvine), in the sta- 
tistics of sir John Sir-clair. vol. xiii. p. 275, to which 
this character is certainly not applicable. E. 



108 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



No. XXX. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

My dear Thomson, August, 1793. 

I hold the pen for onr friend Clarke, who at 
present is studying the music of the spheres at my 
elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is rather 
out of tune ; so until he rectify that matter, he 
cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, and 
if more are wanted, he says you shall have them. 



So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try 
my hand on it in Scots verse. There I always find 
myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits you 
to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the heroine is a 
favorite of mine : if not, I shall also be pleased ; 
because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act 
decidedly on the business*. 'Tis a tinbute as a 
man of taste, and as an editor, wliich you owe 
yourself. 



No. XXXII. 



Confound your long stairs ! 



No. XXXI. 



S. CLARKE. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages in 
my song of Logan-water, is right in one instance ; 
bnt it is difficult to mend it : if I can, I will. The 
other passage you object to, does not appear in the 
same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and you 
will probably think, with little success ; but it is 
such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that 
1 despair of doing any thing better to it. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune—" Robin AdairS^ 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bii-d's careless song, 

Glad I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Hosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom, did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be. 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



Ml-. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My good sir, August, 1793. 

I consider it one of the most agreeable circum- 
stances attending this publication of mine, that it 
has procured me so many of your much valued 
epistles. Pray make my acknowledgments to St. 
Stephen for the tunes: tell him I admit the just- 
ness of his complaint on my stair-case, conveyed 
in his laconic postscript to your jeu d^esprit ; which 
I perused more than once, without discovering ex- 
actly whether your discussion was music, astrono- 
my, or politics : though a sagacious friend, ac- 
quainted with the convivial habits of the poet and 
the musician, offered me a bet of two to one, you 
were just drowning care together ; that an empty 
bowl was the only thing that would deeply affect 
you, and the only matter you could then study how 
to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair a 
Scottish dress. Peter is furnisliing him with an 
English suit for a change, and you ai'e well match- 
ed together. Robin's air is excellent, though he 
certainly has an out of the way measure as ever 
poor Parnassian wight was plagued with. I wish 
you would invoke the muse for a single elegant 
stanza to be substituted for the concluding objec- 
tionable verses of Doxun the Burn Davie, so that 
this most exquisite song may no longer be excluded 
from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from 
your John Anderson my Jo, which I am to have 
engraved as a frontispiece to the humorous class 
of songs ; you will be quite charmed with it, I pro- 
mise you. The old couple are seated by the fire- 
side, Mrs. Anderson in great good humour is clap- 
ping John's shoulders, while he smiles and looks 
at her with such glee, as to shew that he fully re- 
collects the pleasant days and nights when they 
were first acquent. The drawing would do honour 
to the pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, has 

run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my 

* The song herewitli sent, is that in p. 96, 97 
of this volume. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



109 



last attempt, that I have ventured, in this morn- 
ing's walk, one essay more. You, my dear sir, will 
remember an ujifbrtunate part of our wortiiy 
friend C.'s story, which happened about three 
years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endea- 
voured to do the idea justice as follows. 



the modern song first appeared the ancient name 

of the tune, Allaii says, is Allan IVater, or Mtj love 
Annie\- vrij bonie. This last has certainly been 
a line of the original song ; so I took up the idea, 
and, as you will sie, have introduced the line in 
its place, which 1 presume it formerly occupied ; 
thoug'h I likewise give you a c/iusltig line, if it 
should not hit the cut of your fanc} . 



SONG. 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds lu'wl to the waves' dashing roar 
Tht-re would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 
'Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare. 
All thy fond plighted vows— fleeting as air! 
To thy new lover hie. 
Laugh o'er thy perjury. 
Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there ! 



By the way, I have met with a musical Highland- 
er, in Breadalbane's Fcncibles, which are quarter- 
ed here, who assures me that he well rememi^ers his 
mother's singing Gaelic songs to beth Robin Adair 
and Gramachree. They certainly have more of 
the Scotch than Irish taste in them. 

This man couies from the vicinity of Inverness ; 
so it could not be any intercourse with Ireland, 
that could bring them ;— except, what I shrewdly 
suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, 
harpers, and pipers, used to go frequently errant 
through the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, 
and so some favourite airs might be common to 
both.— A case in point— They have lately, in Ire- 
land, published an Irish air, as they say, called 
Caun du delish. The fact is, in a publication of 
Corri's, a great while ago, you will find the same 
air called a Highland one, with a Gaelic s(mg set 
to it. Its name there, I think, is Oran Gaoil, and 
a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. 
Gaelic parson, about these matters. 



By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phiehus sank beyond Benleddi* ; 
The wi. ds were whispering thro' the grove, 

I'he yellow corn was waving ready : 
I lislen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang— 

O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annief. 

O happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie ' 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sevei-. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The sinimer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery, thro' her shortening day. 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 

Bravo ! say I : it is a good song. Should you 
think so too (not else) you can set the music to it, 
and let the other follow, as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more 
verses in it, than in all the year else. 

God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



No. XXXIV. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

My dear sir, August, 1793. 

Let me in this ae night, I will reconsider. I am 
glad that you are pleased with my song. Had I a 
cave, &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume 
of the Museum in my hand ; when turning up Al- 
lan floater, " What numbers shall the muse repeat, 
&c." as the words appeared to me rather unworthy 
of so fine an air ; and recollecting that it is on your 
list, I sat, and raved, under the shade of an old 
thorn, 'till 1 wrote wne to suit the measure. I may 
be wrong; but I think it not in my worst style. 
You must know, that ii^ Ramsay's Tea-table, where 



August, 1793. 
Is Whistle and I ^11 come to you my lad, one of 
your airs ? I admire it much ; and yesterday I set 
the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I hav© 
met with here, begged them of me, as he adntires 
the air much ; but as I understand that he look$ 
with rather an evil eye qn your work, I did not. 
choose to comply. However, if the song does not 
suit your taste, I may possibly send it him. The 
set of the air which I had in my eye, is in Jbhnr 
son's Museum. 



* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3009 feet 
high. R. B. 

t Or, " O my love Annie's very bonie.*' R. B. 



110 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad*, 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad : 
¥ho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 
And come, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

At kirk or at market whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, 
For fear, Etc. 

whistle, &c. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' ;n) Phillis can \ie : 

Her bi-eath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 

Atva, &c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 

Tliat wakes thro' the grten-spreading grove. 

When PhcEbus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

Arva, &c. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting. 

The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decay*. 

A7va, &c. 



Mr, Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a cor- 
ner in your book, as she is a particular flame of 
his. She is a Misy P. M. sister to Bonie Jean. They 
are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me, 
the very first grist I get from my rhyming mill. 



Another favourite air of mine, is, The muckin o' 
Gcordie^s byre. When sung slow with expression, 
I have wished that it had had better poetry : that 
I have endeavoured to supply, as follows. 

Adown Avinding Nith I did wander, 

To raai-k the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Arva wV your belles and your beauties, 
They never wV her can compare : 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wV the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. 

So artless, so simjile, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Plullis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, &c. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Awa, &c. 

* In some of the MSS. the four first lines run 
thus, 

O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. E. 

See also No. LXXVII. of this Correspondence. 



No. XXXVI. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite of 
yours, that I once raoi-e roved out yesterday for 
a gloamin-shot at the musfst ; when the muse that 
presides o'er the shores of Nith, or i-ather my old 
inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, wliispered me the 
following. I have two reasons for thinking that 
it was my early, sweet simple inspirer that was by 
my elbow, " smooth gliding without step," and 
pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the 
first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not 
a fragment of a poet has ai'isen to cheer her soli- 
tary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; 
so I more than suspect that she has followed me 
hither, or at least makes me occasional visits : se- 
condly, the last stanza of this song I send you, is 
the very woi-ds that Coila taught me many years 
ago, and which I set to an old Scots I'eel in John' 
son's Museum. 



Air—" Cauld KaiW' 



Come let me take thee to my breast. 
And pledge we ne'er shail sunder ; 

And I shall spui"n as vilest dust 

The warid's wealth and grandeur : 

* This* song, certainly beautiful, Avould appear 
to more advantage without the chorus ; as is uideed 
the case with several other songs of our author. E. 

f Gloamin — twilight, probably from glooming. 
A beautiful poetical word, vn hich ouglit to be adopt- 
ed in England. A gloamin-shot, a twilight-inter- 
view. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



Ami do I hear my Jeanie own, 
That equal transports move her ? 

I ask for dearest life alone 
That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

1 clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy e'en, sae bonie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever I 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



There Vll spend the day wi' ijou. 
My ain dear dainty Davie*. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is 
to tlie low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of it 
in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 
the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is * * * * 
nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, 
is the way. 



No. xxxviir. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 



If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. The 
last time I came o'er the Moor, I cannot meddle 
wth, as to mending it ; and the musical world 
have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, 
that a different song, though positively superior, 
would not be so well received. I am not fond of 
chorusses to songs, so I have not made one for the 
foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Aupiust. 1793. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There Pll spend the day rvi'' you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet ray faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rtst, 
I flee to his ai-ms I loe best, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knoive, 
Bonie Davie, dainty Davir. 



My dear sir, Edinburgh, 1st Sept. ITQo. 

Since writing to you last, I have received half 
a dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy of Whistle and 
Vll come to you my lad, will render it nearly as 
great a favourite as Duncan Gray, Come let me 
take thee to my breast, Adorvn ivinding Nith, and 
By Allan stream. Sec. are full of imagination and 
feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which they 
are intended. Had I a cave on some 7vild distant 
shore, is a striking and affecting composition. Our 
friend to whose stoiy it refers, read it with a swell- 
ing heart, I assure you. The union we are now 
forming, I think, can never be broken ; these song* 
of yours will descend with the music to the latest 
posterity, and will be fondly cherished so long as 
genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so i>ropitious, I think it 
right to inclose a list of all the favours I have to 
ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three .' I 
have burdened the pleasant Peter « ith as many as 
it is probable he will attend to : most of the re- 
maining airs would puzzle tht English poet not a 
little ; they are of that peculiar measure and 
rhythm, that they must be fa-nlliar to him who 
writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
Mi\ BURNS to jNIr. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any ex- 
ertion in my power, is heartily at your service. 
But one thing I must hint to you ; the very name 
of Peter Pindar is of great service to yoiir publi- 
cation, so get a verse from him now and then ; 
though I have no objection, as well as I can, to 
bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste, 
are merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught 
and untutored by art. For this reason, many mu- 
sical compositions, particularly where much of the 
merit lies in counterpoint ; howeverthcy may trans- 
port and ravish the ears of your connoisseurs, aflTect 
my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melo- 
dious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, 

* Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, 
from which Burns has taken nolliing but the title 
and the measure. F.. 



112 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



I am delighted with maiiy little melodies, which 
the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. 
I do not know whetlier the old air Hey tnttie tuttic 
may rank among this number ; but well I know 
that, with Eraser's hautboy, it has often filled my 
eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have 
met with in many places of Scatlaud, that it was 
Robert Bruce's mai'ch at the battle of Bannock- 
bum. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, 
warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on tiie theme 
of Liberty and Independence, which I threw into 
a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air that one 
might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot''s ad- 
dress to his heroic followers, on that eventful morn- 



Bruce to his Troops on the eve of the Battle of 

BANNOCK-BURN. 

To its ain tune. 

Scots, wha hae wi' TVallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's tlie hour; 
See the from o' battle lour ; 
See appi'oach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie ! 



collection of that glorious stfuggle for freedom^ 
associated with the glowing ideas of some other 
struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, 
roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the 
tune, with his bass, you will find in the Museum ; 
though I am afraid that the air is not what will 
entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. 



No. XL. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793* 
I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begin to 
think my corrcspond^^'nce is persecution. No mat- 
ter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby-horse ; 
which, though otherwise a simple sort of liarmless 
idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed head- 
strong property, that when once it has fairly made 
off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with 
the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-ginglt of its own bells, that 
it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, 
quite beyond any useful point or post in the com- 
mon race of man. 

The following song I have composed for Oran- 
gaoll, the Highland air that you tell me in your 
last, you have I'esolved to give a place to, in your 
book. I have tliis moment finished the song ; so 
you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, 
well 1 if not, 'tis also well ! 



Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
AVha can fill a cowai'd's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for ScotlanrVs king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberties in every blow I 
Let us do, or die I 



Tune—" Oran-gaoil.^' 

Behold the hour, the boat aiTive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart: 
Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has wiil'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here, I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail," 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



So may God ever defend tlic cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day !— Amen. 

P. S. I shewed the air to Urbani, who was high- 
ly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft 
verses for it, but I had no idea of giving myself 
any trouble on the subject, till the accidental re- 

* This noble strain was conceived by our poet 
during a storm auiong the wilds of Glen-Ken in 
Galloway. A more finished copy will be found af- 
terwards. E. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sth Sept. 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed, that the great- 
est modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest 
merit. While you are sending me verses that even 
Shakespeare might be proud to own, you speak of 
them, as if they were ordinary productions ! Your 
heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the 
kind, in the Scottisli language. 1 hax>x)ened to dine 



Kr. GEORGE THOMSONS 



113 



yesterday with a paity of your friends, to whom I 
read it. They were all cliariiicd with it, introatcd 
uifc to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated 
the idea of giving' it a tune so totally devoid of in- 
terest or g'randeur as Hey tuttie tnitie. Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the tradition con- 
cerning it, for I never heard any pei-son, and I 
have conversed again aiid again with the greatest 
enthusiasts for Scottish airs, I say, I never heard 
any one speak of it, as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I 
think Lexvic Gordon is most happily adapted to 
your ode ; at least with a very slight variation of 
the fourth line, which I shall presentlj submit to 
you. There is in Lewie Gordon more of the grand 
than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung 
with a degree of spirit, which your words would 
oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scru- 
ple about substituting your ode in the room of 
Leivie Gordon, which has neither the interest, the 
grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your 
verses. Now the variation I have to suggest upon 
the last line of each verse, the only line too short 
for the air, is as follows : 

■Ferse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains, and slaverie. 

3d, Let him, let him, turn and flee. 

4th, Let him bravely follow me, 

5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 
6th, Let us, let us do, or die .' 

If you connect each line with its own verse, I 
do not tliink you will find that either the senti- 
ment or the expression loses any of its energy. The 
only line which I dislike in the whole of the song 
is, " Welcome to your gory bed." Would not ano- 
ther word be preferable to rvelcome ? In j^our next 
I will expect to be informed whetlier you agree to 
what I have proposed. The little alterations I sub- 
mit with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
Oran-gaoil, will insure celebrity to the air. 



No. XLIL 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON, 

September, 1793. 

I have received your list, ray dear sir, and here 
Jo mjf observations on it*. 

Doivn the burn Davie. I have this moment tried 
an alteration, leaving out the last half of the third 
•stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

Ami thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the talf . 

* Mr. Thomsoa's list of songs for his publication. 
In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes 
througli the whole ; but on many of them he mere- 
ly signifies his approbation. Ail his remarks of any 
Tmportance, are presented to the reader. E. 



With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you*." 

Thro'' the 7oood laddie— I am decidedly of opi- 
nion, that both in this, and There'll 7icvcr be peace 
'till Jamie comes hanie, the second or high part of 
the tune, being a repetition of the first part an oc- 
tave higher, is only for instrumental music, and 
would be much better omitted in singing. 

Cowdcn-knuives. Remember in your index that 
the song iu pure English to this tune, beginning 

" When summer comes the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawford. Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am com- 
plete master of a tune, in my own singing (such 
as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is : 
I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to 
my idea of the musical expression ; then choose 
ray theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is com- 
posed, which is generally the most difficult part of 
the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, 
look out for objects in nature around me, that are 
in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my 
fancy, and workings of ray bosom ; humming eve- 
ry now and then the air, with the verses I have 
framed. When 1 feel my muse beginning to jade> 
I retire to the solitary fire-side of my study, atid 
there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at 
intervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by 
way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as 
my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is al- 
most invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice, I am for leaving out. It is a plagniy 
length ; the air itself is never sung ; and its place 
can well be supplied by one or two songs for fine 
airs that are not in your list. For instance, Crai- 
gieburn-JVood, and Roy's wife. The first, beside its 
intrinsic merit, has novelty ; and the last has high 
merit as well as great celebrity. I have the origi- 
nal words of a song for the last air, in the hand- 
writing of the lady who composed it ; and they are 
superior to any edition of the song which the pul> 
lie has yet seenf. 

Highland-laddie. The old set will please a mere 
Scotch ear l)est ; and the new an Italianized one. 
There is a third, and what Oswald calls the ok! 
Highland-laddie, which pleases more than either 
of them. It is sometimes called Ginglaii Johnnie ; 
it being the air of an old humorous tawdry song 
of that name. You will find it in the Museum, / 
haebcen at Crookiedcn, ire. I would advise you, in 
this musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to 
the muses for inspiring direction ; and in the mean 

* This alteration Mr. Tlio;;)SOi» has adopted (or 
at least inteou'.d to adopt), instcxd of the last stnn- 
za of the original song, which is objectionable in 
l)oint of dc^licacy. E. 

t This song, so mudi admir* d by our bard, will 
be found in a future part of the volume,/*. 131. E. 
P 



114 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



time, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation 
to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt but you will 
hit on a judicious choice. Probatuin est. 

Auld sir S'unvn. I must beg you to leave out, 
and put in its place The Qitaker''s -ivife. 

Ely the hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides, 
is composed on a young lady, positively the most 
beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I pur- 
pose giving you the names and designations of all 
my heroines, to appear in some future edition of 
your work perhaps half a century hence, you must 
certainly include the boniest lass in a' the world 
in your collection. 

Daintie Davie, I have heard sung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and niuety-nine times, and 
always with the chorus to the low part of the tune ; 
and nothing has surprised me so much, as your 
opinion on this subject. If it will not suit, as I 
proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, 
and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father— 1 inclose you Eraser's set of this 
tune when he plays it slow ; in fact he makes it 
the language of despair. I shall here give you two 
stanzas, in that style ; merely to try if it will be 
any improvement. Were it possible, in singing;, 
to give it half the pathos which Frazer gives it in 
playing, it would make an admirably pathetic song. 
I do not give these verses for any merit they have. 
I composed them at the time in which Patie Al- 
lan^s inither died, that was about the back o' mid- 
night ; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, 
which had overset every mortal in company, ex- 
cept the hautooy and the muse. 



Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me 

ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me 

ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should us 

sever. 
Now thou's left thy lass for ay— I maun see thee 

never Jamie. 
I'll see thee never*. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me for- 
saken : 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me for- 
saken : 

Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is 
breaking : 

Soon my wt ary e'en I'll close— Never mair to wa- 
ken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to wakeut. 



Jockie and Jenny I would discard, and in its place 



* The Scottish (the editor uses the word sub- 
stantively, as the English) employ the abbreviation 
/'// for / shall as well as / rvill , and it is for / 
shall it is used here. In Anandale, as in the north- 
ern counties of England, for / shall, they use Vse. E. 

■f This is the whole of vhe sojig. The bard ne- 
ver proceeded farther. Nqte by Mr. Tho7nson. 



Mould put There^s nae luck about the house, which 
has a very pleasant air ; and which is positively the 
finest love-ballad in that style in the Scottish, or 
perhaps in any other language. fFhen she came 
ben she bobbet, as an air, is more beautiful than ei- 
ther, and, in the andante way, would unite with a 
charming sentimental ballad. 

Saw ye my father, is one of my greatest favour- 
ites. The evening before last, I wandered out. and 
began a tender song, in what I think is its native 
style. I must premise, that the old way, and the 
way to give most erfect, is to have ho starting note, 
as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into the 
pathos. Every country girl sings— 5azt> ye my fa- 
ther. &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, 
before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. I 
have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it 
may be easily turned into correct English*. 



Todlin hame, Urbani mentioned an idea of his. 
which has long been mine ; that this air is highly 
susceptible of pathos : accordingly, you will soon 
hear him, at your concert, try it to a song of mine 
in the Museum ; Te banks and braes o' bonnie D0071. 
One song more, and I have done ; Auld lang syne. 
The air is but 7nediocre ; but the following song, 
the old song of the olden times, and which has ne- 
ver been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I 
took it down from an old man's singing, is enough 
to recommend any aii". 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should aiild acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be foi'got, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear^ 

For auld lang syne, 
IVeHl take a cup o' kindness yety 

For auld lang sync. 

We twae hae run about the braes. 
And put't the gowans fine ; 

But we've wandered mony a weary foof 
Sin auld lang sjiie. 
For auld, &c. 

We twae hae paidlet i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us bi'aid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang sj-ne. 
For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
And gie's a hand o' thine ; 



* This song appeal's afterwards. It begins. 
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning." E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



115 



And we'll tak a right gude wille-waught, 
For auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne*. 
Foi- auld, &c. 



Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fair- 
ly. You must, after all is over, have a number of 
ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice, 2'ranent 
Muir, M'- Phrrsori's farewell. Battle of Sheriff-nmir, 
or We ran and they ran (1 know the author of this 
charming' ballad, and his history), Hardikniite. Bar- 
bara Allan (I can furnish a finer set of this tune 
than any that has yet appeared) ; and besides, do 
yoii know that I really have the old tune to whic 
The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; and which is 
mentioned as a well known air in Scotl;>nd's Com- 
plaint, a book published b fore j)oor Mary's days ? 
It was th- n called The banks o' Helicon ; an old 
poem which Piiikerton has brought to light. You 
will see all this in Tytler's history of Scottisli mu- 
sic. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good 
many original things of this kind. 



No. XLIII. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I am happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleases 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have 
altered the song as follows. 



BANNOCK-BURN. 

Robert Bruce^s Address to his Army., 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ? coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 



Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be— shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ; 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



* This song, of the olden time, is excellent. It 
is worthy of our bard. E. 



N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the 
common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had 
enough of my correspondence. 'I'he post goes, and 
my head aches miserably. One comfort : I suffer 
so much, just now, in this world, for last night's 
joWality, that I shiU escape scot-free for it iu the 
world to come. Amen ! 



No. XLIV. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

\2th Sept. 1T93. 

A tliousand thanks to you, my dear sir, for your 
observations on the list of my songs. I am happy 
to find your ideas so much in unison with my own 
respectirjg the generality of the airs, as well as the 
verses. About some of them we diifer, but there 
is no disputii.g about hobby-horses. I shall not fail 
to profit by the remarks you make ; and to recon- 
sider the whole with attention. 

Dainty Davie must be sung, two stanzas toge- 
ther, and then the chorus ; 'tis the proper way. I 
agree with you, that there may be something of 
pathos, or tenderness at It ast, in the air of Fee hint 
F'ather, when performed with feeling: but a ten- 
der cast may be given almost to any lively air, if 
you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with se- 
rious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably 
for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own 
humorous verses, wherever the verses are passa- 
ble. But the sweet song for Fee him Father, which 
3 ou began about the back of midnight, I will pub- 
lish as an additional one. Mr. James B;.lfour, the 
king of good fellows, and the best singer of the 
lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charm- 
ed tliousands of companies with ee him F'ather, 
and with Todlin hanie also, to the old words, which 
never should be disunited from eitlu r of these airs. 
Some bacchanals I would wish to discard. Fy let^s 
a' to the bridal, for instance, is so coarse and vul- 
gar, that I think it fit only to be sung in a com- 
pany of drunken colliers ; and Saiv ye my Father, 
appears to me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic ode. 
I think, with great deference to the poet, that a 
prudent general would avoid laying any thing to 



119 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



his soldiers which might tend to make death more 
frightiul than it is. Gory, presents a disagreeable 
image to the mind ; and to tell them, " Welcome 
to your gon bed," seems rather a discouraging ad* 
dress, notwithstanding the altei-native which fol- 
lows. I have shewn tlie song to three friends of 
excellent taste, and each of them objected to this 
line, which emboldens me to use the freedom of 
biinging it again under your notice. I would sug- 
gest, 

" Now ijrepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



I have finished my song to Saxo ye mxj father 
and in English, as you will see. That there is a 
syllable too much for the expression of the air, is 
true ; but, allow me to say, that the mere dividing 
of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quavei-, 
is not a great matter : however, in that, I have no 
pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of 
the poetry I speak with confidence ; but the mu- 
sic is a business where I hint my ideas with the 
utmost diffidence. 

The old V. rses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular ; my advice is to set the aii" to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are- 



No. XLV. 



FAIR JENNY. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

September. 1793. 

" Who shall decide, when doctors disagree ?" My 
ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your 
proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting 
me on reconsidering it ; as I think I have much 
improved it. Instead of" soger ! hero !" I will have 
it " Caledonian .' on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it, over and over ; and to the 
world some way or other it shall go as it is. At the 
same time it will not in the least hurt me, should 
you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first 
intention of adopting Logan's verses*. 



See pa. 115. 



Tune- 



Saw 



ly Fatker,' 



* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this 
song (if it may be so called) as the bard presented 
it to him. He has attached it to the air of Leiuie 
Cordon, and perhaps among the existing airs he 
could not find a better ; but the poetry is suited to 
a much hig-her strain of music, and may employ 
the genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such 
should in future arise. The readc-r will have ob- 
sei-^ed, that Burns adopted the alterations proposed 
by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances, with great readiness ; perhaps, indeed, on 
all indinerejit occasions. In the present instance, 
however, he rejected them, though I'epeatedly 
urged, with determined resolution. With every re- 
spect for the judgment of Mr, Thomson and his 
friends, we may be satiified tliat he did so. He 
who. in preparing lOr an engagement, attempts to 
withdraw his imagination from images of death, 
will probably have but imperfect success, and is 
not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where 
the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such 
men, the conquerors at Bannock-burn were not 
composed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and 
familiar vith all its sufttrlngs and dangers. On 
the eve of that memorable day, their spirits were, 
without doubt, wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm 
suited to the occasion ; a pitch of enthusiasm, at 
which danger becomes attractive, and the most ter- 
rific forms of death are no longer terrible. Such 
a strain of sentiment, this heroic " welcome" may 
be supposed w<.ll calculated to elevate— to raise 
their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their 
arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These 
observations might be illustrated and supported, by 



Where are the joys I have met in the morning. 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild-woods among ? 

No more a winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flowrets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that sununer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surl)" winter is near? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the yeai*. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

a reference to the martial poetry of all nations, 
from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyrta^us, to the 
war-song of general Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's obser- 
vation, that " Welcome to your gory bed, is a dis- 
couraging address," seems not sufficiently consi- 
dered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that 
the term gory, is somewhat objectionable, not on 
account of its presenting a frightful, but a disa- 
greeable image to the mind. But a great poet, ut- 
tering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, 
seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and 
is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of 
taste on the altar of the imagination. And it is 
the privilege of suiierior genius, by producing a 
new association, to elevate expressions that were 
originally low, and thus to triumph over the defi- 
ciencies of lunguage. In how many instances might 
this be exemplified from the works of our iimnor- 
tal Shakespeare ? 

" Who wowU fardels beai*. 
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;— 
When he himself might his quietus make 
Witli a bare bodkin .'" 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such re- 
flections, is probably sufficient. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON, 



117 



Time cannot aid me, toy ^-iefs are immortal, 

Nor liope dare a comlbrt bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my angiiisli, 

Enjojinent I'll seek in my woe. 

Adieu, my dear sir ! The post goes, so I shall 
defer some other remarks until more leisure. 



No. XLVI. 
Mr, BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
English songs. 

For Muirland Willie you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning " Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes." As for The 
Collier''n dochter, take the following old JBacchanal. 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee; 



take care that you shall not want songs ; and E 
assure you that )ou would find it the most saleable 
of the whole. If you do not approve of Roi/s ^Vife, 
for the iuusic's sake, we shall uot insert it. Dcil 
tak the roars, is a charming song ; so is, Saw ye 
mtj Peggy. There^s nne (tick about the house, well 
deserves a place. I cannot say that, O'er the hills 
and far awa, strikes me, as equal to your selec- 
tion. This is no my ain house, is a great favourite 
air of mine ; and if you will send me yo«ir set of 
it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What 
is } our opinion of, / hae laid a herrin in saivt ? 
I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; 
and there are many others of the same kind, pret- 
ty ; but you have not room for them. You can- 
not, I think, insert, Fye let us o' to the bridal, to 
any other words than its own. 

What pleases me as simple and /lair^, disgusts 
you as ludicrous and low. For this reason. Fiegie 
me my coggie Sirs, Fie let us a' to the bridal, with 
several others of that cast, are, to me, highly 
pleasing; \^\n\*^. Saw ye my father or saw ye my 
mother, delights me with its descriptive simple pa- 
thos. Thus my song. Ken ye what Meg o' the 
Mill has gotten ? pleases myself so much, that I 
cannot try ray hand at another song to the air ; so 
I shall not attem])t it. I know you will laugh at 
all this ; but, " Ilka man wears liis belt his ain 
gait." 



The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming. 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but tjpes of woman. 



No. XLVIl. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



O ! art thou not ashamed, 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou ait mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 

'Ihe fiiulty line in Logan-water, I mend thus ; 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry." 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'Gre- 
goira Rua-Riith, you will see a song of mine to it, 
with a set of the air superior to yours in the Mu- 
seum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins : 

" Raiding winds around her blowing*." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down- 
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of Banna 
for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scot- 
tish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are 
so fojul of Irish music, what say you to t%venty- 
five of (hem in an additional number ? We could 
easily find this quantity of charming airs ; I will 

* This will be.found among the songs publish- 
ed in the Museum. E. 



October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed 
laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine* ! 
The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your 
publication, has, till now, scared me from writing 
to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for 
you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air 
of the Ouaker''s Wife ; though, by the bye, an old 
highlaiid gentleman and a deep antiquarian, tells 
me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of 
Leiger m'' choss. The following verses, I hope, will 
please you, as an English song to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heai't. 

There to throb and languisli : 
Tho' despair had wrung its core. 

That w ould heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure : 



* The honourable A. Erskine, brother to lord 
Kell) , whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson lin.d 
conuuunicated in an excellent letter, which ho 
has suppressed. E. 



118 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



Turn away Ihine eyes of lore, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Iiove's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 



Your objection to the English song I proposed 
for John Anderson my Jo, is certainly just. The 
following is by an old acquaintance of mine, 
and I think has merit. The song was never in 
print, which I think is so much iii your favour. 
The more original good poetry your collection 
contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. 

SONG, 

BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

condescend, dear, charming maicT^ 
My wretched state to view ; 

A tender swain to love betray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

1 heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd : 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield. 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And tho' victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee. 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And grateful, I sliall bless thee stilly 

And love thee more and more. 



The following address of Turnbull's to the 
nightingale, will suit as an English song to the 
air, There ivas a lass and she was fair. By the 
bye, TurnbuU has a great many songs in MS. 
which I can command, if you like his manner. 
Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be 
prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his 
pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 
BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For, tho' the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 

Their tales approves, and still she shun$ 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And briiig the solemn hours again. 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's^ 
which would go chai-mingly to Lewie Gordon. 

LAURA. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers j 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laui-a haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I chuse 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If I court some cool I'etreat, 
To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I shall answer at somV; 
other opportunity. 



^ir. GEORGE THOMSON. 



110 



No. XLVIII. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

yiy good sir, 7th Nov. 1793. 

After so long a silence it gave me poculiar ])lea- 
sure to recognise your well-tnown huiid. for I had 
begun to be apprehensive that all was not well 
with yon. I am happy to find, however, that your 
silence did not proceed from that cause, and that 
you have got among the ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for yoi'r English song to 
Leiger m' choss, which I thijik extremely good, 
although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr. 
TurnbuU's songs have doubtless considerable me- 
rit ; and as you have the command of his manu- 
scripts, I hope you may find out some that will an- 
swer as English songs, to the airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 



Air—" The Sutor's Dochtcr,'^ 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I l)ear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only tliott 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may chuse me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
'I'rusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me* 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Uo.L. 



December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses to 
the tune of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 

Yet 1 am not your slave, sir, 

'' One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say. 

My spouse Nancy?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so, good b'ye allegiance J 

'' Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round j our inidnlghl bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

'•' I'll wed another, like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse Nancy." 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, Edinburgh, nth April, 1794. 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss 
of his cliild, at the time of his receiving your ad- 
mirable but melancholy letter, I had not an op- 
portunity till lately of perusing it*. How sorry 
I am to find Burns saying-, " canst thou not mi- 
nister to a mind diseased ?" while he is delighting 
others from one end of the island to the other. 
Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a 
physician upon his case. Go, says the doctor, and 
see the famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in 
good humour. Alas, sir, replied the patient, I am 
that unhappy Carlini I 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases me 
greatly, and I trust that by some means or other 
it will soon take place ; but youY Bacchanalian 
challenge almost frightens me, for I am a misera- 
ble weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of 
his talents. He has just begun a sketch from your 
Cotter's Saturday Night, and, if it pleases himself 
in the design, he will probably etch or engrave it. 
In subjects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he 
is perhaps unrivalled by any artist liring. He 
fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his fe- 
malis, and his colouring is sombre, otlierwise his 
paintings and drawiiigs would be in greater re- 
quest. 

I like the music of the Sutor''s dochter, and will 
consider wheihor it shall be added to the last vo- 
lume ; your vtrscs to it are pretty ; but your hu- 
morous English so?ig to suit Jo Janet, is inimita- 
ble. What think you of the air, IVithin a mile of 
Edinburgh ? It has always struck me as a mo- 
dern English imitation, but it is said to be Os- 
wald's, and is so much like<l, that I believe I 
must include it. Ihe verses are little better than 

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found in 

General Correspondence 



120 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



iiambij panihy. Do you consider it worth a stanza 
or two ? 



No. LI. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

My dear sii-, May, 1794. 

I return you the plates, with which I am high- 
ly pleased ; I would humbly propose, instead of 
the younker kiiittijig stocKings, to put a stock 
and hom into his hands. A friend of mine, who 
is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have 
ever met with, and though an unknown, is yet a 
superior artist with the bitrin, is quite charmed 
•with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the 
Gentle Shepherd; and he pronounces Allan a 
most original artist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's chusing ray 
favourite poem for his subject, to be one of the 
highest compliments I have ever receiv(;d. 

I ain quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, / shall 
be quite in song, as you shall see by and bje. I 
got an air, pretty enough, composed by lady Eliza- 
beth Heron, of Heron, which she calls The banks 
of Cree. Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: 
and as her ladyship is a particular fi-iend of mine, 
I have written the following song to it. 



BANKS OF CREE. 



Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the bii'clien shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid .' 

'Tis not Maria's wliispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breatlxing gale, 
Mixt with some wax'bler's dying fall 

The dewy stai- of eve to hail. 

It is Maiia's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little, faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music— and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? and art thou true ? 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



No. LII. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



me ! That auspicious period, pregnant with thp 

happiness of millions* ■* ****** 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote, 
on the blank side of the title page, the following; 
addi-ess to the young lady. 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd. 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of tlie grateful mind. 

So may no ruffiant feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosojn-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or love extatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endearS; 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. LIII. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, Edinburgh, 10th August, 1794. 

I owe you an apology for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. I 
fear it will be as you say, I shall have no more 
songs from Pleyel till France and we are friends ; 
but nevertheless, I am veiy desirous to be pre- 
pared with the poetry, and as the season ap- 
proaches in wliich your muse of Coila visits yon, 
I trust I shall as formerly be frequently gratified 
with the result of your amorous and tender inter- 
yiews. 



No. LIV. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

ZOth August, 1794. 

Tlie last evening as I was straying out, and think- 
ing of O'er the hills and far away, I spun the fol- 
lowing stanza for it ; but whether my spinnjng- 
will deserve to be laid up in store lilie the pre- 
cious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the 
devil like the vile manufacture of the spider, I 
leave, my dear sir, to your usual candid criticism. 
I was pleased with several lines in it at first ; but 
I own that now, it appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether 
it be woith a critique. We have many sailor 
songs, but, as far as I at in-esent recollect, they 



July, 1794. * A portion of this letter has been left out, for 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work reasons that will be easily imagined. E. 
to be at a dead stop, until the allies set our modern t It were to have been wished that, instead of 

Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of ruffian feeling, the bard had used a less raggetl 

democratic discords ? Alas the day ! And woe is epithet, q. ^. rubier, E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



121 



fli-e mostly the effusiohs of tlie jovial sailor, not 
the w aiiings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here 
Jnake one sweet exception—Sweet Annie J'rae tlie 
iSea-beach came. Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune—" O'er the Hills, &c." 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ! 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe I 
Let me wander, let me rove. 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and far aivay ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by da^ 
Are aye -with him thafsfar away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Hajjly in this scorching sun 
My sailoi-'s thund'ring at his gun ; 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, &c. 

At the starless midnight hour. 
When w inter rules with boundless power ; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howlijig air, 
Listening to the doubling i-oar 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
Tor his weal that's far away. 
071 the seas, &c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly gi-eet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, <b'c. 



very happy productions, thougli it certainly con- 
tains staiizas that are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, particu- 
larly " Bullets spare my only joy." Confound 
the bullets. It might perhaps be objected to the 
third verse, " At the starless midnight hour," that 
it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that 
greater simplicity of thought would have better 
suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. The 
tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk cheer- 
ful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my hum- 
ble opinion, the song would be better adapted to 
the tune, if it consisted only of the first and last 
verses, with the chorusses. 



No. LVI. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794, 
I shall withdraw my On the seas and far away, 
altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy the work. 
Making a poem is like begetting a son : you can- 
not know whether you have a wise man or a fool, 
until you produce him to the world and try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of my 
brain, abortions and all ; and as such, jiray look 
over them, and forgive them, and burn them*. I 
am flattered at your adopting Ca'' the yowes to the 
knowes, as it was owing to me that it ever saw the 
light. About seven years ago I was well ac- 
quainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergy- 
man, a Mr. Clunzie, who sung it chai'mingly j 
and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from 
his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added 
some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but 
still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll 
which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few jmis- 
toral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, 
which I would preserve. Here it is, witli all its 
crudities and imperfections on its head. 



CHORUS. 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in 
the spirit of Christian meekness. 



Ta' the yowcs to the knowes, 
Ca'' them wharc the heather groives, 
Ca'' t/iem whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonie dearie. 

Hark, the mains' evening sang 
Sounding Clotiden's woods amangf; 
Then a fiiulding let us gang, 
My bonie dearie. 
Cfl' the, &c. 



No. LV. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, Edinburgh, 16th Sept. 1794. 

You have anticipated my opinion of On the 

seas and far axvay ; I do not think it one of your 



* This Virgilian order of the poet, should, I 
think, be disobeyed with respect to the song in 
question, the second stanza excepted. Note by 
Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second 
stanza does not strike the editor. E. 

t The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary 
stream to the Nith. E. 
CI 



122 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



We'll gae dowTi by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the wavts, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Co' the, ere. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight houi's, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheary. 
Ta' the, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thoii'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou has stowTi my very heart ; 
I can die— but canna part, 
My bonie dearie. 
To' the, &c. 



Like harmony her motion ;: 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky.- 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilka feature— a iild nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair : 
Htr's are the v.illing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye ray Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon j 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' U'uth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



I shall give you my opinion of your other newly 
adopted songs, my first scribbling fit. 



No. LVIL 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called 
Onagh''s ivaterfall ? The air is charming, and I 
have often regretted the want of decent verses to 
it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic 
muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit : still I think that it is better to have me- 
diocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. 
On this principle I have all along proceeded in 
the Scots Musical Museum, and as that publica- 
tion is at its last vohmie. I intend tlie following- 
song, to the air above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be 
pleased to have verses to it that you can sing be- 
fore ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BESl OF A'. 

Tune—" Onagh''s WaterfalV 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' boiinie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasui-e, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye my Chloris' dear; st charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 



Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederic of 
Prussia's taste in paintuig : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, 
and always, without any Iiypocrisy, confessed his- 
admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music 
must be inelegajit and vulgar, because people of 
undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit 
in my fav^ourite tunes. Still, because I am cheap- 
ly pleased, is that any reason why I should deny 
myself that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys, 
ancient and modern, give me most exquisite enjoy- 
ment, where you and other judges would probably 
be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now 
making verses for Rothemurche''s Rant, aii air 
which puts me in raptures ; and in fact, unless I 
be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses 
to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a 
judge that I will pit against any of you. Bathe- 
7iiurche, he says, is an air both original and beau- 
tilul ; and on his recommendation I have taken 
the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the 
fourth or last part for the song. I am but two 
stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may 
think, and justly, that the poeu-y is as little worth 
your attention as the music*. 

I have begun anew, Let nie in this ae night. Do 
you think that we ought to retain the old chorus ? 
I think we must retain both the old chorus and 
the first stanza of the old song, I do not alto- 
gether like the third line of the fii-st stanza, but 
cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three 
stanzas deep in ii. Would you have the denou'e- 

* 111 the original loJlow here two stanzas of a 
song, beginning, " Lassie \vi' the lint-white locks ;" 
which will be found at full length afterwards, pa. 
128. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



123 



menf to be successful or otherwise ? should she 
'' let him in" or not ? 

Did you not once propose The Soiv''s tail to 
Gcordie, as an air for your work ? I am quite dc- 
Jighted with it ; but I acknowledge tliat is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, whicli I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours I am 
afraid is rather burltsque for sentiment, else I 
had meant to have made you the hero and heroine 
of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, which 
I wrote the other day, on a lovely young girl's re- 
covery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the 
physician who seemingly saved her from the 
grave ; and to him 1 address the following. 



To Dr. Maxnvell, on Miss Jessy Staig^s recovery. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
Toil sa^ e fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant 
upon her favourite poet, whose ivood-notes ivild 
are beconae as enchanting as ever. She says she 
lo'cs me best of «', is one of the jileasantest table 
songs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine 
when the song is going round. I'll give Cunning- 
ham a copy ; he can more powerfully proclaim its 
merit. I am far from undervaluing your taste for 
the strathspey music ; on the contrary, I think it 
highly animating and agreeable, and tliat some of 
the strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very j)leasing songs, in the same 
way that rough Christians are tempered and sof- 
tened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, 
they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow^s tail, particu- 
larly as your proposed verses to it are so extreme- 
ly promisujg. Geordy, as you observe, is a name 
only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs. Thom- 
son's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Re- 
tain Jeanie, therefore, and make the other Jamie, 
or any other that sounds agreeably. 

Your Ca' the erves, is a precious little morceau. 
Indeed I am perfectly astonished and charmed 
with the endless variety of your fancy. Here let 
me ask you, whether you never seriously tui'ned 
your thoughts upon dramatic writing ? That is a 
field worthy of your genius, in which it miglit 
shine forth in all its splendour. One or two suc- 
cessful pieces upon the London stage would make 
your fortune. The rage at present is for musical 
dramas: few or none of those whicli Imvc ap- 



peared since the Duenna, possess much poetical 
merit : there is little in the conduct of the fable, 
or in the dialogue, to interest the audience. They 
are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I 
think you might produce a comic opera in three 
acts, which would live by the poetry, at the same 
lime that it would be proper to take every assis- 
tance from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs 
of course would be to our favourite Scottish airs ; 
the rest might be left to the London composer-^ 
Storace for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent 
Garden ; both of them very able and ])opular mu- 
sicians. I believe that interest and manoeuvring 
are often necessan' to have a drama brought on : 
so it may be with the )iamby pumby tribe of How- 
ery scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. She- 
ridan himself, by letter^ and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persiiaded he would, for the honour 
of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Ex- 
cuse me for obtruding these hints upon your coti- 
eideratiou*. 



No. LIX. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mi-. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottisli collections. I have 
read, and sung, and fiddled, and considered, till I 
am half blind and wholly stupid. The few airs 
I have added, are inclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs 
1 expected from him, which are in general ele- 
gant and beautiful. Have j ou heard of a London 
collection of Scottish airs and songs, just publish- 
ed by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send 
you a copj-. His introductory essay on the sub- 
ject is curious, and evinces great reading and re- 
search, but does not decide the question as to the 
origin of our melodies ; though he shows ckarly 
that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious dissertation, has 
adduced no sort of proof of the hjpothesis he 
wished to establish ; and that his classification of 
the airs according to the a;ras when they were 
composed, is mere fairicy and conjecture. On John 
Pinktrton, esq. he has no mercy ; but consigns 
him to damnation .' He snarls at my publication, 
on the score of Pindar being engaged to write 
songs for it; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it 
to be inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers 
had been sent a packing to make room for Pe- 
ter's ! Of you he speaks with some n spect, but 
gives you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress 
up a little, some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, 
from the oldest collections and best authorities : 
many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by 
every person of taste, old or joung, in town or 
country, that we can scarcely recognize the fea- 
tures of our favourites. By going to the oldest 

* Our bard had Ijefore received the same advice, 
and certainly took it so far into consideration, as 
to have cast about for a subject. E. 



124 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



collections of our music, it does not follow that 
we find the melodies in their original state. These 
melodies had been in-eserved, we know not how 
long, by oral communication, before being col- 
lected and printed : and as different persons sing 
the same air very differently, according to their 
accurate or confused recollection of it, so even 
supposing the first collectors to have possessed the 
industrj', the taste and discernment to chuse the 
best they could hear (which is far fi-om certain), 
still it must e\'idently be a chance, whether the 
collections exhibit any of the melodies in the state 
they were first composed. In selecting tlie melo- 
dies for my own collection, I have been as much 
guided by the li\-ing as by the dead. Where these 
differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to me 
the most simple and beautiful, and the most gene- 
rally approved : and without meaning any com- 
pliment to my own capability of chusing, or 
speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter my- 
self that my sets will be found equally freed from 
vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected graces 
on the other. 



No. LX. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



To descen^ to business ; if you like my idea oi' 
JVhen she cam ben she bobbit, the following stan- 
zas of mine, altered a little from what they were 
formerly when set to another air, may iierhaps do 
instead of worse stanzas. 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 

(Qiiasi dicat Phillis.) 

Tune—" When she cam ben she bobbit.''^ 

O saw ye ray dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,- 
She wiuna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, ray Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the aii-, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



My dear friend, 19th October, 1794. 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, in 
general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at moi-e 
leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke 
goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you 
would call on him and take his opinion in general : 
you know his taste is a standard. He will return 
here again in a week or two ; so, please do not 
miss asking for hira. One thing I hope he will 
do, pei'suade you to adopt my favourite, Craigie- 
burnivood, in your selection ; it is as great a fa- 
voui'ite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it 
vas made, is one of the finest women in Scotland ; 
and in fact {entre nous) is in a manner to rne what 
Sterne's Eliza was to hira— a mistress, or friend, or 
what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Pla- 
tonic love. (Now don't put any of your squinting 
constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you 
that to my lovely friend you are indebted for ma- 
ny of your best songs of mine. Do you think 
that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence, 
could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy— 
could fire hijn with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book ?— no ! 
no !— Whenever I want to be more than ordinary 
in song ; to be in some degree equal to your di- 
viner airs ; do you imagine I fast and pray for 
the celestial emanation ? Tout au contraire ! I 
have a glorious recipe ; the veiy one, that, for his 
own use, was invented by the divinity of healing 
and i)oetry, vhen erst he piped to the flocks of 
Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of aduiinng 
a fine woman ; and in proportion to the adorabi- 
lity of her charms, in proportion you are delight- 
ed with my verses. The lightning of her eje is 
the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her 
sxniic, the divjr.it y of Helicon I 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The Po- 
sie (in the Museum) is my composition ; the air 
was taken down from Mr. Burns' voice*. It is 
well known in the west country, but the old words 
are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune 
again, and tell me if you do not think it is the 
original from which Roslin Castle is composed. 
The second part, in particular, for the first two or 
three bars, is exactly the old air. Strathallan's 
Lament is mine : the music is by our right trusty 
and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. Do- 
nochthead is not mine : I would give ten pounds 
it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Her- 
ald ; and came to the editor of that paper with the 
Newcastle post-mai'k on itf. Whistle o^er the lave 

* The Posie will be found afterwards. This, and 
the other poems of which he speaks, had appeared 
in Johnson's Museum, and Mr. T. had enquired 
whether they were our bard's. E. 

t The reader will be curious to see this poem, 
so highly praised by Burns. Here it is : 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, («) 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale. 
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering tells his waefu'" tale. 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa'. 
And diima let his winding sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

'• Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flen .. 

******* 

(c) A mountain in the noTth. E. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



125 



«V is mine : the music said to be by a John Bruce, 
a celebrated violin player, in Dumfries, about the 
begfinning of this ccutuiy. This I know, Bruce, 
who was an honest man, though a red-wud High- 
landman, constantly claimed it ; and by all the old 
musical people here is believed to be the author 
of it. 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to which 
this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and was com- 
posed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, 
commonly and deservedly called the Flower of 
Strathmore. 

Hotv long and dreary is the night, I met with 
some such words in a collection of songs some- 
where, which I altered and enlarged ; and to please 
you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a 
stride or two across my room, ami have ari-auged 
it anew, as you \vill find on the other page. 



Tune—" Cauld kail in Aberdeen.^' 

How lang and dreary is the night. 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to mora. 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 



How slow ye move, ye lieary hours !, 
The Joyless day how dreary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh, &c. 



Tell me how you like this. I differ from your 
idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to 
me, a gi'eat deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, 
in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your ad- 
denda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted 
performer, plays and sings at the same time, so 
charmingly^ that I shall never bear to see any of 
her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. 
What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collec- 
tion*. 

These English songs gravel me to death. I have 
not that command of the language that I have of 
my native tongue. I have been at Duncan Gray, 
to dress it in English, but all I can do, is deplor- 
ably stupid. For instance : 



Tune—" Duncan Gray.'''' 



CHORUS. 

F6r oh, her laneiy nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow''d^cart is sair, 

Thafs absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie • 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ! 
For oh, iyc. 

And mony a day I've danc'd^ I ween, 
To lilts which from my drone I blew.' 

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, 
' Get up, gudeman, and let him in ; 

For weel ye ken the winter night 
Was short when he began his din.' 



Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove ; 

Look abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go: 

Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can— 
You can be no more, you know. 



My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, 

Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee: 
But when it's tun'd to sori-ow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me.i 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gfate, 

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 

" Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

And, weeping at the eve of life, 
I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." 



Since the above, I have been out in the country 
taking a dinner with a friend, where I met witli 
the lady whom I mentioned in the second page of 
this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into 
song i and returning home, I composed the follow- 
ing : 



The Lover^ morning salute to his Mistress. 
Tune—" Deil tak the wars.^^ 



This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. 
The author need not be ashanud to own himself. 
It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneifl. E. 



Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature 
Rosy mom now lifts his eye, 

* Mr. Rits«n. E. 



120 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



Numbering iika bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through tlie leafy woods, 

And by the i-eeking floods, 
Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in liis bower 

Chants, o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Asceiids wi' sangs o' joy, 
Wliile the sun and thou arise to bless the day^ 

Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
•Tis then 1 wake to life, to light and joyf . 



Yet maiden Maj', in rich arraj. 
Again shall bring thom a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall inelt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain .' 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime. 

Why com'st thou not again i 



I would be obliged to you if you would procure 
me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, 
whith you mention in your letter. I will thank 
you for another information, and that as speedily 
as you please : Whether this miserable drawling 
hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you 
of my correspondence ? 



If you honour ray verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vasnp up the old song, and make it 
liinglish enough to be understood. 

I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East In- 
dian air, wliich you would swear was a Scottish 
one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentle- 
man who brought it over is a particular acquaint- 
ance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send 
you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set 
a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musi- 
cal Museum. Here follow the verses I intend 
for it. 



THE AULD MAN. 



But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thi-o' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, . 

On winter blasts awa ! 

Variation. Now to the streaming fountain, 
Or up the heathy mountain 
The hart, hind, and roe frt>ely, wildly-wan- 
ton stray ; 
In twining hazel bowers 
His lay the linnet pours ; 
The lav'rock, &e. E. 

Variation. AVhen frae my Chloris parted. 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, 
o'ercast my sky : 
But when she charms my sight, 
In pride of beauty's light ; 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
TiR then, 'tis then I wake to Life and joy. 



No. LXI. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 

I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress than 
his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, whose 
bright eyes and witching smiles have so often en- 
raptured the Scottish bard ! that I might drink 
her sweet health when the toast is going round. 
Craigie-biirn-ivood, must certainly be adopted into 
my family, since she is the object of the song; 
but in the name of decency I must beg a new cho- 
rus verse fi'om you. to he lying beyond thee 
dearie, is perhaps a consummation to be wished, 
but will not do for singing in the company of la- 
dies. The songs in your last will do you lasting 
credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I 
am perfectly of your opinion, with respect to the 
additional airs. The idea of sending them into the 
Avorld naked as they were born, was ungenerous. 
They must all be clothed and made decent by our 
friend Clai-ke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ninghaui in sending you Ritson's Scottish collec- 
tion. Permit me, therefore, to pi-esent you with 
his English collection, which you will receive by 
the coach. I do not find his liistorical essay on 
Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes and mis- 
cellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much more 
so. Allan has just sketched a charming design 
from Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such 
spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems almost 
dancing too, while he is playing with the most ex- 
quisite glee. I am much inclined to get a small 
copy, and to have it engraved ui the style of Rit- 
son's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concern- 
ing Maggie Lauder ? was she a real personage, and 
of what rank ? You would surely spier for her if 
you cued at Jbistnithcr town. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



127 



No. LXII. 

3fr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your pre- 
sent : it is a book of the utmost importiince to me, 
I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. for 
your work. I intend drawing it up in the form 
of a letter to you, which will save me from the 
tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. 
Indeed, as all I have to say consists of uncojmect- 
ed remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c. it 
would be impossible to give the work a beginning, 
a middle, and an end ; which the critics insist to 
be absolutely necessary in a work*. In my last, 
I told you my objections to the song you had se- 
lected for My lodging is on the cold ground. On 
my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is 
the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi- 
ration) she suggested an idea, which I, in my re- 
turn from the visit, wrought into the following 
song. 



My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay^ 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaAv. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as oui's 

Beneath the milk-wlxite thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer Uile, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu"d, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The coui-tier's gems may witness lovc-~ 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



How do you like the simpli>ity and tendei-ness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly 
into the story of Ma cliere Aniie. I assure you, I 

* It does not appear whether Burns completed 
these anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (pro- 
bably the rude draughts) was found amongst his 
papers, and appears in General Correspondence. 



was never more in eaniest In my life, than in the 
account of that aflair which I sent you in my last. 
—Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel» 
and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not 
make such a figure in poesy, as that other species 
of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of 
which tlie gamut is scanty and confined, but the 
tones inexi>ressi!jly sweet ; while the last has })ow- 
ers equal to all the intellectual n;odulations of the 
human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthu- 
siasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
of the beloved object, is the first and inviolate sen- 
timent that pervades my soul ; and whatever plea- 
sures I might wish for, or whatever might be the 
raptures they would give me, yet, if they interferci 
with that first principle, it is having these pleasures 
at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and gen- 
erosity disdains the purchase J ****** * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you va- 
riety enough in English songs, I have been turn- 
ing over old collections, to pick out songs of which, 
the measure is something siniilar to what I want ; 
and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm 
of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. 
Where the songs have hitherto been but little no- 
ticed, nor have ever been set to music, I ihink the 
shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same 
first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Mis- 
cellany, I have cut down for an English dress to 
your " Dalntie liavie" as follows. 



SONG, 

Altered from an old English oner. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day. 
The youthful, charming Chloe 

From peaceful slumber slie arose, 
GiPt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely rvas she by the dawn, 
Toiithful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o^er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charnmig Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree ; 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Ciiloe. 

Lovely was she, &c. 



12S 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



You may think meanly of this, but take a look 
at the bombast original, and you will be surprised 
that I have made so much of it. I have finished 
my song to Rothe inure he'' s Rant ; and you have 
Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for sing- 
ing. 



LASSIE WI' THE UNT-WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune—" Rotheiyiurche^s Rant." 
CHORUS. 

Lassie tvP the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou -wV me tent the Jiocks, 
JVilt thou be my dearie ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
© wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 

Lassie %vV, dye. 

And when the welcome simmei--shower 
Has chear'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the bi'eathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie ■wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my deai'ie O. 

Lassie ivV, (ire. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O*. 

Lassie rvP the lint-white locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou ivV me tent the Jiocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 



dernized into the Scottish language, is, originally, 
and in the early editions, a bungling low imitation 
of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Ur- 
fey ; so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan 
in the Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight 
superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it pro- 
perly, is the very native language of simplicity, 
tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my 
song to the tune as follows*. 

Now for my English song to Nancy''s to the 
Greenwood, &c» 



Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'i-y ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling: 

Conderan'd to drag a hopeless chain 

And yet in secret langtiish, 
To feel a fire in every vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain ray gi-iefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doora'st me to despair. 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist vvhile it enslav'd me; 
I saw thine eyes yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no more had sav'd me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming niin. 



This piece has at least the merit of being a re- 
gular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer noon, 
the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are 
regularly rounded. If you like it, well : if not, I 
•will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, 
so tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, to the fool- 
ish old verses. You talk of the silliness of, Saiv ye 
my father : by heavens, the odds is, gold to brass ! 
Besides, the old song, though now pretty well mo- 

* In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus : 

And should the howling wintry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 
A nd comfort thee, my dearie O, E* 



There Is an air, The Caledonian hunt's delight,, 
to which I wrote a song that you will find in 
Johnson. 7'e banks and braes o' bonie Doo7i ; this 
air, I think, might find a place among your hun- 
dred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know 
the history of the air ? It is curious enough. A 
good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in 
your good town, a gentleman whom possibly jou 
know, was in company with our friend Clarke ; 
and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an 
ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. 
Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to 

* See the song in its first and best dress, in page 
125. Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily 
throw this into an English mould ; but, to my 
taste, in the simple and the tender of the pastoral 
song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an ij*- 
iautable effect."' JE;. 



]JIr. GEORGE THOMSON, 



121) 



keep to the black keys of the harjisichonl, an«l 
presi'ive some kind of rliythin ; and he would in- 
failihly conipose a Scots aii-. Certain it is, that in 
a ft u days Mr. Miller prodtned (he rudiments of 
an air, wliich Mr. Clarke, with some touches and 
corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. 
Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black 
keys; but tliis account which I liave just given 
3'ou, Mr, Clarke informed nie of, several years ago. 
Now, to shew you liow diilicult it is to trace the 
origin of (uir airs, I have lieard it rei>eatedly as- 
serted tliat this was an Iiish air; nay I met with 
an Irish gentleman w Ito afllriued he had heard it in 
Ireland amoug the old women ; wliile, on the other 
hand, a countess informed me, that the first per- 
son who introduced tlie air into this country, was 
a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took 
down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle 
of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth, 
respecting our poes) and music! I, myself, have 
lately seen a couple of ballads sung tlirough the 
streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of 
them as the author, though it was the first time I 
had ever seen them. 

I thank you for a^lmitthi^ Craig ic-biirn-ivood ; 
and I shall take care to furnish you with a new 
chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but 
a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch 
myself in a more Uian ordinarily- propitious mo- 
metit, I shall write a new Craigi^-biirn-~wQO(l alto- 
gether. My heart is much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the re- 
quest ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a mo- 
ment, when I had forg-olten whether I w as rich or 
poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It 
wrings m^' honest pride to write you this ; but an 
tmgracious request is doubly so, by a tedious apo- 
logy. To make you some amends, as soon as I 
have extracted the necessary information out of 
them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 
and I am not a little proud tliat I have it in my 
power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your 
patience that my paper is done, for when I am in 
a scribbling liuiuour, I know not when to give 
over. 



No. LXIII. 



ours are written in this form : I wish you would 
think of it in some of those that remain. The 
only one of the kind you have sent me, is admira- 
ble, and \\ ill be an universal favourite. 

Your verses for liothcinurc/ie are so sweetly 
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Deil. 
tok the wars, so passi6nat. ly tender,' that I have 
sung myself into raptures with them. Your song 
for My lodging is on the cold ground, is likewise 
a diamond of the first water; I am quite dazzled 
and delighted by it. Some of your Chlorises I sup- 
l)t)se have flaxen hair, from your partiality for this 
colour ; else we differ about it ; for I should scarce- 
ly conceive a woman to be a beauty, on reading 
that she had lint-white locks i 

Farewell thou stream that winding fiows, 1 think 
excellent, but it is much too serious to come after 
Nancy : at least it would seem an incongruity to 
provide the same air with merry Scottish and me- 
lancholy English verses J The more that the two 
sets of verses resemble each otlier in their general 
character, the better. Those you have manufac- 
tured for Dainty Davie, will answer charmingly. 
I am happy to find you have beguii your anec- 
dotes : I cai'e not how long they be, for it is im- 
possible that any thing from your pen can be te- 
dious. Let me beseech you not to use ceremony 
in telling me when you wish to present any of 
your friends with the songs : the next carrier will 
bring you three copies, an I you are as welcome 
to tweiuy, as to a pinch of snuff. 



Ko. LXIV. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

19th November, 1794. 
You see, my dear sir. what a punctual corres- 
pondent I am ; though indeed you may thank your- 
self for the tedium of my letters, as you have so 
flattered me on my horsemanship with my favour- 
ite hobby, and have praised tlie grace of his amb- 
ling so much, that I am scarcely ever oti" his back. 
For instance, this morning, though a keen blow- 
ing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished 
my duct which you were pleased to praise so much. 
Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not 
say ; but here it is for you, though it is not an 
hour old» 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 



My good sir, ISth November, 1794. 

Since receiving your last, I have had another 
interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long consulta- 
tion. He thinks the Caledonian hunt is more Bac- 
chanalian than amorous in its nature, and reeom- 
ineuds it to you to match the air aecordinglj'. Pray 
did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well the 
Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the form of 
a dialogue? The first part of the air is generally 
low, and suited for a juaii's voice ; and the second 
part, in many instances, cannot be sung, at con- 
cert i»itrh, but by a female voice. A song thus 
perfoiiwed makes an agreeable variety, but few of 



Tune—" The Sow's TaiU' 

HE. 
O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving througli the gather'd hay, 
M} yodthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charnis, my Philly. 

SHE. 
O Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where liist I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst ilioii didst pldge the powers abave 
T« bemyain dear Willy. 
R 



150 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



HE. 
As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So itka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 
As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy, n^ 

HE. 

'I'he milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE. 
The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 
The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 
The woodbine in the dewy weet, 
When evejiing shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE. 
Ii€t fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win : 
;ftly thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



feet : and shall certainly have none in my project- 
ed song to it. It is not however a case in point 
with Rothemurche ; there, as in Rotfs -wife of At^ 
dhmloch^ a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. 
As to the chorus going first, that is the case with 
Rorfs rvife, as well as Rothemurche. In fact, in 
the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so pe- 
culiar and irregular, and on that irregularity de- 
pends so much of their beauty, that we must e'ea 
take them with all their wildness, and humour the 
vers'. accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, 
in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regu- 
larity could countei'balance the want of. 



Try, 
and 
Compare with, > 



7 O Roy's wife of Aldivaloch. 

5o 



lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Roy''s wife of Aldivaloch. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
stiike you ? In the last case, with the true furor of 
genius, you strike at once iiito the wild originality 
of the air ; whereas, in the first insipid method, it 
is like the grating screw of the pins before the fid- 
dle is brought into tune. This is my taste ; if I 
am wrong I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian hunt is so charming, that it 
would make any subject, in a song, go down ; but 
pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish 
Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few 
we have are excellent. For instance, Todlin home 
is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composi- 
tion t and Andrew and his cutty gun is the work 
of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed 
to think that those men of genius, for such they 
certainly wtre, who composed our fine Scottish 
lyrics, should be unknown ? It has given me many 
a heart-ach. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in 
Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for au air J 
like niVLch— Lumps o'' pudding. 



SHE. 
What's a' the joys that gowd can gie i 
I care na wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain deai- Willy. 



Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
bur songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you 
did not liint it to me sooner. In those that remain, 
I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objec- 
tions to the name, Philly ; but it is the common 
abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name 
that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgari y about it, which 
unfits it for any thing except burlesque. The le- 
gion of Scottish poetasters of the day. whom your 
brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my 
coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for sim- 
plicity : whereas, simplicity is as much cloignec 
from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected 
point and puei'ile conceit, on the oflier. 

I agree with jou as to the air, Craigie-burn-wood, 
that a chorus would in some degree spoil the ef- 



Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouchy. 
And my freedom's my lairdsliip iiae monarch dare 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and styte on her Avay ;, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or 

pain ; 
IVIy warst word is—" Welcome and welcome again ]"' 

If you do not relish the air,. I will send it to 
Johnson. 



Ml'. GEORGE THOMSON. 



331 



Since yesterday's penmansliip, I have framed a 
couple of Eiiglisli stanzas, by way of an English 
song- to /?»7/'j IV/ff. You will allow me that in this 
instance, my English corresponds in sentiment with 
the Scottish. 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 

Tune—" Roy's Wife.:'* 

CHORUS. 

€anst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
£anst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
JVcll thou knorv'st my achuig heart. 
And 'onst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward— 
An achi^ig, broken heart, my Katy ? 

Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like mine, iny Katy. 
Canst thou, &c.* 



* To this atdress in the character of a forsaken 
{over, a reply was found on the pirt of the lady, 
among the MSB. of our bard, evidently in a female 
hand-writing ; which is doubtless that referred to 
in p. 113 of this volume. The temptation to give 
it to the public, is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, 
offence should be given to the fair authoress, the 
.beauty of her verses must plead our excuse. 

Tune—" Ror/s wife." 



Well ! I think tliis, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see, I aui detenuiiied to have my quantum of 
applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that wr 
only want the trilling circumstance of being known 
to one another, to be the best friends on earth) that 
I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the 
figure of the stock and honi. I have, at last, got- 
ten one ; but it is a very rude instrument. It is 
composed of three pai'ts : the stock, which is the 
hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in 
a mutton-ham ; the horn, which is a common High- 
land cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the 
aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be 
pushed up through the horn, until it be held by 
the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an 
oaten-reed exactly cut and notched like that which 
you see every shephtrd-boy have, when the com 
stems ai-e green and full grown. The reed is not 
made fast in the bone, but is held by the lipSj and 
plays loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while 
the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, 
is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six 
or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back- 
ventige, like the common fiute. This of mine was 
made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is 
exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that 
country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If Mr. 
Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine ; as 
I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with 
him. " Pride in poets is nae sin," and I will say 
it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
the Oiily genuine and real painters of Scottish cos- 
tume in the world. 



No. LXV. 



CHORUS. 



Ml-. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS, 



Stay, my Willie— yet believe me^ 
Stay, my IVilUe—yet believe me, 
For, ah, thou kiio^vst na'' every pang 
Wadwring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven. 

And when this heart proves fause to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

But to think I was betrayed. 

That falsehood e'er ovir loves should sunder ! 
To take the fiow'ret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' ssrpent under. 

Stay, my Willie, &c. 

CoiUd I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, 
Celestial pleasures might I choose 'era, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 

•S'^cy, my Willie, &c. 



2Bth November, 1794. 
I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are uot only 
the most punctual, but the most delectable, cor- 
respondent 1 ever met with. To attempt flatter- 
ing you, never entered my head ; the truth is, I 
look back with surprise at my impudence, in so 
frequently nibblii^g at lines and couplets of your 
incomparable lyrics, for which perhaps if you hatl 
served me right, jou would have sent me to the 
devil. On the conti-ary, however, you have all along 
condescended to invite my criticism with so much 
courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have 
sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. 
Your last budget demands unqualified praise : all 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this 
occasion the gentleman and lady have exchanged 
the dialects of their respective countries. The 
Scottish bard makes his address in pure English : 
the reply on the part of the lady, in the Scottish 
dialect, is, if we mistake not. by a young and Ijeau- 
tiful Englishwoman. E. 



132 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



the songs are cbavming', but the duet is a chef 
(Tceuvre. Lumps of fmddlng shall certainly make 
one of my fsimily dishes : yon have cooked it so 
capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give 
us a few more of this east, when you find jour- 
self in good spirits : these convivial songs ai-e more 
Avanted than those of the amorous kind, of vs liich 
we have great choice. Besides, one does not often 
meet with a singer capable of giving the proper 
effect to the latter, while the former aiv easily 
sung, and acceptable to everj body. I participate 
in your i-egi-et that the authors of some of our 
best sojigs are unknown : it is provoking to every 
admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's Return, to be eji- 
gravtd for one of my frontispieces. The most in- 
teresting point of time appears to me. when she 
first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She gaz'd, 
she reddf n'd like a rose." The three lines imme- 
diately following, arc no doubt more impressive ou 
the reader's feelings, but were the painter to fix 
on these, then you'll observe tlie animation and 
anxiety of her countenaiiCe is gone, and he could 
only represent her fainting in the soldier's arms. 
But I submit the matter to you, and beg your 
opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your accu- 
rate description of the stock and horn, and for the 
very gratifying compliment you pay him, in con- 
sidering him worthy of standing in a niche by the 
side of Burns, in the Scottish Pantheon. He has 
seen the rude instrument you describe, so does not 
want you to striid it ; but wishts to know whether 
you believf it to have evtr been generally used as 
a musical pipe liy the Scottish shephi rds, and wh-n, 
and in whut part of the country chiefly. I i.oubt 
much if it was capable of any thing but routing 
and roaring. A frieiid of mine says he remembers 
to have heard one in his younger days (made of 
■wood instead of your bone), and that the sound was 
abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



The suaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adoiii, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad boso.ii, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nanie— and Name's awa. 

Thou lav"i-ock that springs frae the dews of the 

lawn 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', 
Give over for pity— my Nanie's awa. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary wintei-, and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me— now Nanie's awa. 



How does this please you ? As to the point of 
time, for the expression, in your proposed print 
from my Sudger^s Return : it must certainly be at 
— " She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and sus- 
pense, taking possession of her countenance ; and 
the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish 
playfulness, in his, strike jne, as things of which 
a master will make a great deal. In great haste, 
but in gi-eat truth, yours. 



No. LXVII. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I fear for my songs ; however, a few may please, 
yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and 
in a multiplicity of eft'orts in the same style, disap- 
pears altogether. For these three thousand years, 
we, poetic folks, have b<.en describing the spring, 
for instance ; and as the spring continues the same, 
there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. 
of these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aikin on songs, says, that love 
and wine are tlie exclusive themes for soiig-writ- 
ing. The following is on neither subject, and con- 
sequently is no song ; but will be allowed, i think, 
to be two or three pretty good prose tlxoughts, in- 
verted into rhyme. 



December, 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do 
any thing to forward, or add to tlie value of your 
book : aiid as I agree with you that the Jacobite 
song, in the Museum, to There''ll never be peace 
till Jamie comes hame, would not so well consort 
with Peter Phidar's excellent love-song to that air, 
I have just framed for you the following: 

MY NANIE'S AWA. 

Tune—" There""!! never be peace, &c."' 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a'' that ; 
The covvard-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscui-e, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
Wliile birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless— my Nanie's awa. 



What though on hamely fare we dine. 
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine. 
A man's a man for a' that : 



Ml-. GEORGB THOMSON. 



133 



For a" that, and a' that, 

'lluir tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The lionest man, though eVr sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' tliat. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts and starc-s, and a' that ; 
Though huiidrt-ds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 
For a' that, and a' thai, 

His ribband, star, and a' that, 
The man of ind<'pt-ndent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A jiiarquis. duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Gnde faith he manna fa' that ! 
For a' tliat, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, ' 
The pith o" sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's comin yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



No. LXVIII. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, Edinburgh, 30th January, 1795. 

I thank you heartily for Nanle's axva, as well 
as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely 
pair. Your observation on the diffictilty of ori- 
ginal writing in a number of eiibris, in the same 
style strikes me very forcibly ; and it has again 
and again excited my wondir to find you conti- 
nually surmounting this difliculty, in the many 
delightful songs jou have sent me. Your vive la 
bagatelle song. For a' that, shall undoubtedly be 
included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favourite air. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night.'''' 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet. 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 

For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 



I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for 
the piece is not really poetry. How will the fol- 
lowing do for Craigie-burn-Tvood • 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow. 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please. 

And care his bosom wringing I 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou slialt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither*. 

Fai-ewell ! God bless you. 

* Craigie-burn-wood is situated on the banks of 
llie river Moffat, and about three miles distant froni 
tlio village of that name, celebrated for its medi- 
cinal waters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of 
Dumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts of 
our poet. It was there he met the " Lassie wi' the 



let me in this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity''s sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 

And shield me fi-ae the rain, jo. 
let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, imheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
let mc in, &c. 



HER ANSWER. 



O tell na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain, 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

/ tell you noiv this ae night. 
This ae, ne, ae night ; 

lint-white locks," and thaX he conceived seveTal ot 
his beautiful l)Ties. E, 



134 



CORRESPONDENCE -WITH 



And ance fur a' this ae night, 
I n'inna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer poui's, 
Is iioGht to what pooi' she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
/ tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

/ tell you noxv, ^'c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
i-et witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
/ tell you now, <iyc. 



No. LXXI. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

25th February, 1795. 

I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two epis- 
tles, one containing Let me in Uiis ae night ; and 
the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that, drunk 
01- sober, your " mind is never muddy." You have 
displayed great address in the above so! g. Her 
ans^^ er is excellent, and at the same time takes 
away the indelicacy that othtrwist would have at- 
tached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now 
stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be an-ested some days at 
Eccleftchan, and be obliged to beguJK- the tedious 
forenoons by song-making. It will give me plea- 
sure to receive the verses you intend for luat ye 
wha''s in yon town. 



not know whether it will do. 



No. LXXII. 



No. LXX. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Ecclefechan, 7th February, 1795. 
My dear Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as a supervisor (in which capacity I have 
acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortu- 
nate, wicked, little village. I have gone forward, 
but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my pro- 
gress : I have tried to " gae back the gate I cam 
again," but the same obstacle has shut me up 
within insuperable bars. To add to my misfor- 
tune, since diimer, a scraper has been torturing 
catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the 
dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a 
butcher, and thinks himself, on tliat very account, 
exceeding good company. In fact, I have been 
in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these 
miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : 
like a prudent man (a character congenial to my 
every thought, word, and deed) I, of two evils, 
have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at 
your service* ! 

1 wrote J on yesterday from Dumfries. I had 
not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; and 
heaven knows, at present I have not capacity. 

Do you know an air— I am sure you must know 
it. We'll gang nae mair to yon town ? I tliink, in 
slowish tune, it woidd make an excellent song. I 
am highly delighted with it ; and if you should 
think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair 
dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good 
night. 

* The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to 
abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. E, 



Ml*. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

Tune—" Wherein bonie Ann lie.''^ 

Or, " Locheroch Side.'''' 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heartj 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Tliou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair : 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor lieart is broken I 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you 
like tliis song. 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune—" Aye wakin 0." 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrom^ 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



If 3 J 



H^'hile my souPs delight 
li on her bed of sorrotv. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the coucli of anguish ? 

Long, &c. 

Every hope is fled, 

Ev'ry fear is terror; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 

Long, &c. 

Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 

Long, &c. 



How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish air. 
Humours of Glen, is a gr-.at favourite of mine, and 
as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there 
are not any decent verses for it, I have written 
f(fc- it as follows. 

SONG. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen.^^ 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breclian, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom : 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un- 
seen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the lij^et, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonians blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, 
What ai-e they ? I'he haunt o' the tyrant and 
slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fouur 
tains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 
Jean. 



'Twas the dear smile when naehody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitclung, sweet, stown glance o' kind- 
ness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I ftar that desjrair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in iny bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sineerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can altei-. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would faker. 

X.et me hear from you. 



TSo. LXXIIL 
Mr. THC^MSON to Mr. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good sir, that I have 
any ijitention to enhance the value of my gift, 
when I say, in justice to the ingenious and wor- 
thy artist, that the design and execution of the 
Cotter's Saturday Night, is, in my opinion, one of 
tlie happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall 
be grievously disappointed if you are not quite 
pleased witli it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think 
strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your 
phiz. This should make the piece interesting to 
your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. 
Burns finds you out among tlie figures. 

I cannot express the feelings of admiration with 
which I have read your pathetic Address to tfie 
JVuodlark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia^ 
and jour affecting verses on C/iloris^s illness. 
Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. 
The other song to *' Laddie lie near me," though 
not equaj to these, is very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Altered froin an old English song. 
Tune—" John Anderson my jo.'''' 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Laddie lie near me.''' 

•Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tiio' she be. that was ne'er my nndoing 



The ravening hawk pursuing. 

The trembling dove thus flies. 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthhss falconer, 

And drops beueatb his feet. 



136 



CORRESPONDENCE AVITH 



SON&. 

Tune—" Deil tak the wars.''^ 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when eompar'd with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polish'd jewel's blaze, 

jVIay draw the wond"ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright, 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 



auld, I foresaw would form the striking features 
of his disposition, I named Willie Niccl, after a 
certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters 
of a grammar-school in a city which shall be 
nameless. 

Give the inclosed epigram to my much-valued 
friend Cuimingham, and tell him that on Wed- 
nesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom liis 
friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a manner 
introduced ine— I mean a wtU-known military and 
literary character, colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two last 
songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVI. 



But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet openipg flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Av'rice would deny 

His worshipped deity, 
And feel thro' every vein love's raptures roll. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders : your tailor could not be more 
Ijunctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetizing, 
provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't 
cure me. If you can in a post or two admijiister 
a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, 
it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any 
height you want. I am at this moment " holding 
high converse" with the muses, and have not a 
word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as 
vou are. 



No. LXXV. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present ; 
though I am ashamed of the value of it, being 
bestowed on a man who has not by any means 
jnerited such an instance of kindness. I have 
shown it to two or three j udges of the first abili- 
ties here, and they all agree with me in classing 
it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae ken- 
spefk/c, that the very joiner's apprentice whom 
Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I 
vas out of town that day) knew it at once. My 
most grateful compliments to Allan, who has ho- 
noured my rustic muse so much with his masterly 
pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little 
one who is making the felonious attempt on the 
cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill- 
tleedie, d — n'd, tvee, rumble-gairie, urchin of mine, 
whom, from that propensity to witty wickedness 
a.nd manfu' mischief, ^lych, even at twa days 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

13th May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that you are 
all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's production. 
The chance i-esemblance of your little fellow, 
whose promising disposition appeared so x'ery 
eai-ly, and suggested whom he should be named 
after, is curious enough. I am acquainted with 
that person, who is a prodigy of learning and g-e- 
jiius, and a pleasant fellow, though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the draw ing from me. I do 
not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently 
esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind 
manner in which you have entered into the spirit 
of my undertaking, which could not have been 
perfected w^ithout yon. So I beg you would not 
make a fool of me again, by speaking of obliga- 
tion. 

I like your two last songs very much, and am 
happy to find you are in such a high fit of iwe- 
tizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made a fine 
pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad of IViU 
Ham and Margaret, and is to give it to me, to be 
jnrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVII. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

In Whistle and Pit come to ye, ?ny lad, the ite« 
ration of tliat line is tiresome to my car. Here 
goes what I thinlc is an improvement : 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad. 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shi-ine I, the 
priest of the nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus ; a dame whom the graces have attired in 
witchcraft, and whom the loves have armed with 
lightning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the 
song, insists on the amendment ; and dispute her 
commands if you dare ! 



Mf. GEORGE THOMSON. 



137 



SONG. 

Tune—" This is no my ain /(om*c." 
CHORUS. 

this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho'' the lassie be ; 
rveel ken I my ain lassie. 

Kind love is in her eV. 

I see a form, I see a face. 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace^ 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, &c. 

Slxe's bonnie, blooming', straight, and tall;, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms ray very saul. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, ire. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light are lovers' een^ 

When kind love is in the e'e. 

this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, &c. 



Do you know that you have roused the torpi- 
dity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me to 
write three or four songs for him, wliich he is to 
set to music himself. The inclosed sheet contains 
two songs for him, which please to present to iny 
valued friend Cunningham. 

I inclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- 
tion, and that you may copy the song, bonnie 
tvas yon rosy brier. I do not know whether I am 
right ; but that song pleases me, and as it is ex- 
tremely probable tliat Clarke's newly roused ce- 
lestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of 
indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scot- 
tish verses, to the air of / 7vish my love -was in a 
mire; and poor Erskine's English lines may- 
follow. 

I inclose you a For «' that, and «' that, which 
was never in print : it is a much superior song to 
mine. I have been told that it was composed by 
a lady. 



To Mr. CUNNINGHAM, 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the grove in greenj 
And strew'd the lea wi' Hewers : 



The furrow'd, waving com is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling bam 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thoi'n 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream) 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little fiow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wotj 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling spring's- 

And climbs t^e early sky. 
Winnowing biythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I soiTow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. '^ 

O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known .' 
The wretch whase doom is " hope nae mair,'' 

What tongue his woes can tell 1 
Within whase bosom save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 



O bonnie was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man 3 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear I 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Ton rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae gi-een ; 

But i)urer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen* 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair J 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scom^ 
Its joys and griefs alike resign* 



138 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edi- 
tion of my poejns, presented to the lady, whom, 
in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with 
the most ardent sentiments of real friendsliip, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift i-efuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse> 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms), 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behiiid ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind! 

Thine is the self-approvingjglow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below. 

Thine friendship's truest heart ; 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste. 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 



One bagatelle de Vamitie, 

Coila. 



the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the 
line remain unaltered*. 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a 
few airs to be joined to your verses. Every body 
i-egrets his writing so veiy little, as every body ac- 
knowledges his ability to write well. Pray was the 
resolution formed coolly before dinner, or was it a 
midnight vow made over a bowl of punch with 
the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S. The lady's For o' that and a' that, is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared to 
yours than I to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX. 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night.''^ 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Far, far from thee I wander here ; 

Far, far from thee, the fate severe 

At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

ivert thou, love, but near mel. 
But near, near, near me; 
Ho-w kindly thou -tvouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 

7VC7-t, &C. 



No. LXXVIII. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brianton, 
who has read your works, and pants for the ho- 
nour of your acquaintance. I do not know the 
gentleman, but his friend, who applied to me for 
this introduction, being an excellent young man, I 
have no doubt he is worthy of all acceptation. 

]My eyes have j ust been gladdened, and my mind 
feasted, with your last packet— full of pleasant 
things indeed. What an imagination is yours ! It 
is superfluous to tell you, that I am delighted with 
all the three songs, as well as with your elegant 
and tender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
•whistle and Pll come to ye, my lad, to the prosaic 
line, Thij Jenny 7vill venture 7f?' yc, my lad. I 
must be permitted to say, that I do not think the 
latter either reads or sings so well as the former. 
I wish, therefore, yoii would in my name petition 



Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 
Let me not break thy faithful heart. 
And say that fate is mine, love. 

Tvei-t, ire. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet I 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
-wert, &c. 



How do you like the foregoing ? I have written 
it within this hour : so much for tlie speed of my 
Pegasus ; but what say you to his bottoin? 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this 
song sing it herself in the very spirit of arch sim- 
l)licity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's pe- 
tition unreasonable. If we mistake not, this is 
the same lady who produced the lijics to the tune 
of Roy's Wife, p. 131. E. 



■Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



139 



No. LXXX. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tune—" The Lothian lassie.''' 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

1 said there was naething I bated like men, 

The deuce gae wi' ra, to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi' m, to believe me. 

Me spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en, 
And vow'd for ray love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord foi-gie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying] 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird. 
And marriage afF-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd. 

But thought I might hae waur offers, vvaur offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near liei* ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess*, 
Guess ye how, the jadJ I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad 1 I could bear her. 

JBut a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Least neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in dnnk. 
And vow 'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet. 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearbi, 
But, heavens ] how he fell a swearin. 



He begged, for Gudesake .' I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill liim wi' sorrow: 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



FRAGMENT. 



Tune— "TAe Caledonian hunt^s dcUght."' 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy; 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie, 

O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all tJie theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel 
Wake thy lover from his dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another stan- 
za to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charm- 
ing sensations of tlie tooth-ach, so have not a 
word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, 3d June, \Ti5, 

Your English verses to Let nic in this ae night, 
are tender and beautiful ; and your ballad to the 
" Lothian lassie" is a master-piece for its humour 
and naivety. The fragment for the Caledonian, 
hunt is quite suited to the original measure of the 
air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must 
content it. I would rather as I said before, have 
had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the 
poet; but nevertheless, for what we have receiv- 
ed. Lord make us thankful. 



No. LXXXIL 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 



* In the original MS. this line runs, " He up 
the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess." Mr. 
Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the 
Word Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr. Bums 
replies as follows : 

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a 
kind of passage up among the Law ther hills, on 
the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is also 
tlie name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where 
arc still a ruined cJiurch and a burial-ground. 
However, let the first line run, He up the lang 
loan, 8xc." 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that 
gives locality to our poet's verses. E. 



5th Feb. 17Q6. 

O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet • 
Or are ye ivauking, I ivoicld wit • 

Tlie pause you have made, my dear sir, is awful !> 
Am I never to hear from you again ? I know and 
I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, 
but I trust that returning healtli and spirits will 
now enable you to resume tlie pen, and delight «< 
with your musings. 1 have still about a dozen 
Scotch and Irish airs that I wish "married to im- 
mortal vtrse." We have several true-born Irisli- 
meji on the Scottish list ; but thev are now natu- 



H& 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH 



Talized, and reckoned our own good subjects. In- 
deed we have none better. I believe I before 
told you that I have been much urged by some 
friends to publish a collection of all our favourite 
airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a num- 
*ber of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan; 
>ybat is your opinion of this ? 



tioned of " flaxen locks" is just : they cannot en-' 
ter into an elegant description of beauty.— Of this 
also again— God bless you* ! 



No. LXXXIV. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 



No. LXXXIII. 
Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear sir, for your handsome, 
elegant present to Mrs. B , and for my remain- 
ing vol. of P. Pindar.— Peter is a delightful fellow, 
and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased 
with your idea of pubUshing a collection of our 
songs in octavo with etchings. 1 am extremely 
willing to lend every assistance in my power. The 
Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of 
iinding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I 
admire much^ 

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune—" Balinamona ora." 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alaiTns, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey for a lass rvV a tocher, then hey for a 

a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass rvl^ a tocher ; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 

And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 

But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green 

knowes. 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white 

yowes. 

Then hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest. 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when posst st ; 
But the sweet, yello.v darlings wi' Geoixlie im- 
prest, 
The langer ye hae them— the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, ire. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish 
engagement. In my by-past songs, I dislike one 
thing ; the name of Chioris— I meant it as the fic- 
titious name of a certain lady ; but, on second 
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek 
appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad.— Of this, 
aiid some things else, in my next : I have more 
agiendments to propose.— What you once inen- 



Your Hey for a lass wi'' a tocher, is a most ex- 
cellent song, and with you the subject is some- 
tliing new indeed. It is the first time I have seen 
you debasing the god of soft desire, into an ama- 
teur of acres and guineas.— 

I am happy to find you approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my 
choice of them for that work. Independently of 
the Hogarthian humour with which they abound, 
they exhibit the character and costume of the 
Scottish peasantry with inimitable felicity. In 
this respect, he himself says, they will far exceed 
the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle Shep- 
herd, because in the etching he sees clearly what 
he is doing, but not so with the aquatinta, which 
he could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural, than the Scottish figures 
in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 
Mv. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some 
time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By Babel 
streams I have sat and wept," almost ever since I 
wrote you last : I have only known existence by 
tlie pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; and 
have counted time by the repercussions of pain J 
Rlieumatism, cold, and fever, have formed to me 
a teriible combination. I close my eyes in mi- 
sery, and open them without hope. I look on the 
vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson— 

" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, 
landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for 
these many years has been my howff, and where 
our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry 
squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's 
etchings. IVoo^d and married and a\ is admirable ! 
The grouping is beyond all praise. The expres- 
sion of the figures, confoi-mable to the story in 
the balhxd, is absolutely faultless perfectiou. I 
next admire Tiirnim-spike. What I like least is 
Jenny said to Jocky. Besides the female being in 
her appearance ***** if you take her stoop- 
ing into the account she is at least two inches 

* Our poet never explained what name he would 
have substituted for Chioris. 

i^ote by Mr. Thomson. 



Mr. GEORGE THOMSON. 



L41 



taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely But why urge the tender confession 



sympathize with him ' Happy I am to think that 
he yet has a well-grounded hope oC health and en- 
joyment in this world. As for me— but this is a 
• * * • » subject] 



'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Xessy 
Hcrc''s a health, &c.* 



No. LXXXVIII. 



No. LXXXVI. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 



Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

4th May, 1796. 

I need not tell you, ray good sir, what concern 
the receipt of your last gave me, and how much I 
sympathize in your sufferings. But do not, I be- 
seech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor 
speak the language of despair. The vigour of 
your constitution, I trust, will soon set you on your 
feet again ; and then it is to be hoped you will 
see the wisdom and the necessity of taking due 
care of a life so valuable to your family, to your 
friends, and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable ac- 
counts of your convalescence, and ieturning good 
spirits, I remain with sincere regard yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not delivered the 
gfold seal to you in good condition. 



No. LXXXVII. 



This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young 
fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day 
or two in town, you will have leisure, if you chuse, 
to write me by him ; and if you have a spare half 
hour to spend with him, I shall place your kind- 
ness to my account. I have no copies of the 
songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy 
to review them all, and possibly may mend some 
of them ; so when you have complete leisure, I 
will thank you for either the originals, or copiesf. 
I had rather be the author of five well-written 
songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes 
that the genial influence of the approaching sum- 
mer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
boast of returning health. I have now reason to 
believe that my complaint is a flying gout :' a sad 
business ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- 
ber me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a month 
ago. I am still very poorly, but should like nmch 
Id hear from you. 



Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON.- 

My dear sii*, 

I once mentioned to you an air which I ha\'o 
long admired. Herc^s a health to them thafs awa, 
Mnetj, but I forget if you took any notice of it. 
I have just been trying to suit it with verses ; and 
I beg leave to recomsuend the air to your atten- 
tion once more. I have only begun it. 



CHORUS. 

-Berets a health to ane I lo''e dear, 

Here^s a health to ane I lo^e dear ; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear— Jessy ! 

Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied ; 
?Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy i 
Here^s a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the di-eain o' sweet .lu:aber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms— Jessy! 
Here'^s a health, ire, 

? guess ^, „.. 
I guess by 



by the dear angel s iiile, 
;8S by the l©ve-ralling e'e ; 



No. LXXXIX, 

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 

Bro7v, on the Sohvay-Jirth, 12th July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, curst ne- 
cessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. 
A cruel ••*•** of a haberdasher, to whom I 
owe an account, taking it into his head that I am 
dying, has commenced a process, and will infalli- 
bly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me 
that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me 
this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have 
made me half distracted. I do not ask all this 
gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, 1 here- 
by promise and engage to furnish you with five 
pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have 
seen. I tryed my hand on Rothemiirche this 
morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is 
impossible to infuse mucli genius into the lines ; 
they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 



* In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first 
stanzas only are given, and Mr. Thomson suppos- 
ed our poet had never gone I'arther. Among his 
MSS. was, however, found the fourth stanza, which 
completes this exquisite song, the last finished off- 
spring of his muse. E. 

t It is ueedless to say, that thb rensal Bums 
did uot live t» perform. E. 



142 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH Mr; GEORGE THOMSON. 



SONG. 

Tune— "i?o«AemMrc/ie." 

CHORUS. 

Fairest maul on Devon hanki, 
Chrystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou laij that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou knowest I love thee dear ; 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear I 
O did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me shai'e ; 
And by thy beauteous self I sweai*. 
No love but thine my heart shall knowi 
Fairest maid, &c.* 



* These verses and the letter enclosing them, 
are written in a character that marks the feeble 
state of Bums' bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of 
opinion that he could not have been in any dan- 
ger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had 
many firm friends, nor under any such necessity 
of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But, about this 
time, his reason began to be at times unsettled, 
and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted 
his imagination. He died on the 21st of this 
month. 



No. XC. 
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 

My dear sir, 14th July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what 
manner I could endeavour to alleviate your suffer- 
ings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary 
offer, but the recollection of one of your letters 
on this subject, and the fear of offending your in- 
dependent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank 
you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your 
letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure inclose 
a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. 
Would I were chancellor of the exchequer but 
for one day, for your sake ! 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you to 
muster a volume of poetry ? If too much trouble 
to you in the present state of your health, some 
literary friend might be found here, who would 
select and arrange from your manuscripts, and 
take upon him the task of editor. In the mean 
time it could be advertised to be published by sub- 
scription. Do not shun this mode of obtaining 
the value of your labour ; remember Pope pub- 
lished the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, 
my dear Bums, and do not reckon me intrusive 
with my advice. You are too well convinced of 
the respect and friendship I bear you, to impute 
any thing I say to an unworthy motive. Yours 
faithfully. 

The verses to Rothemurche will answer finely. 
I am happy to see you can still tune your lyre. 



GENERAL 

CORRESPONDENCE ; 

INCLUDING 

PIECES 

OF 

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



IT is impossible to dismiss this volume of the 
correspondence of our bard, without some anxiety 
as to the reception it may meet with. The exper- 
iment we are making has not often been tried ; 
perhaps on no occasion, has so large a portion of 
the recent and unpremeditated effusions of a man 
of genius been committed to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a considerable 
number were transmitted for publication, by the 
individuals to whom they were addressed ; but very 
few liave been printed entire. It will easily be be- 
lieved, that in a series of letters, written without 
the least view to publication, various passages 
were found unfit for the press, from different con- 
siderations. It will also be readily supposed, that 
our poet, writing nearly at the same time, and un- 
der the same feelings, to different iadividuals, would 
sometimes fall into the same train of sentiment, 
and forms of expression. To avoid, therefore, the 
tediousness of such repetitions, it has been found 
necessarj' to mutilate many of the individual lettei-s, 
and sometimes to exscind parts of great delicacy 
— the unbridled effusions of panegyric and regard. 
But though many of the letters are printed from 
originals, furnished by the persons to whom they 
were addressed, others are printed from first 
draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of 
our bard. Though, in general, no man committed 
his thoughts to his correspondents with less consi- 
deration or effoit than Burns, yet it appears, that 
in some instances he was dissatisfied with his first 
essays, and wrote out his communications in a fair- 
er character, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the ori- 
ginal sketches were found, and as these sketches, 
though less perfect, are fairly to be considered as 
the offspring of his mind, where they have seem- 
ed in themselves worthy of a place in this volume, 



we have not hesitated to insert them, though they 
may not always correspond exactly with the letters 
transmitted, which have been lost, or withlield. 

Our author appears at one time to have formed 
an intention of making a collection of his letters, 
for the amusement of a friend. Accordingly, he 
copied an inconsiderable number of them into a 
book, which he presented to Robert Riddell, of 
Glenriddell, esq. Among these, was the account 
of his life, addressed to Dr. Moore, aiul printed in 
the beginning of this work. In copjing from his 
imperfect sketches (it does not appear tiiat h.i had 
the letters actually sent to his correspondents be- 
fore him) he seems to have occasionally enlarged 
his observations, and altered his expressions. In 
such instances his emendations have been adopted ; 
but, in truth, there are but five of the letters thus 
selected by the poet, to be found in the present v v 
lume, the rest being thought of inferior merit, or 
otherwise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary; but these 
have been very few, and such as may be supposed 
to occur in the careless effusions, even of literary 
characters, v.'ho have not been in the habit of car- 
rying their compositions to the press. These cor- 
rections have never been extended to any habitual 
modes of expression of the poet, even where lus 
phraseology may seem to violate the delicacies of 
taste, or the idiom of our language, wliich he wrote, 
in general, with great accuracy. Some difference 
will indeed be found in this respect in his earlier 
and in his later compositions ; and this volume will 
exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the his- 
tory of his mird. In this edition, several new let- 
ters are introduced, and some, of inferior impor- 
tance, are omitted. 



#* 



LETTERS, &c. 

# 



No. I. 

To Mr. JOHN MURDOCH, 

Schoolmaster, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

Dear sir, Lochlee, 15th January, 1783. 

AS I have an opportunity of sending you a let- 
ter witliout putting you to that expense, which any 
production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace 
it with pleasure to tell you that I have not forgot- 
ten, nor ever w ill forget, the many obligations I 
lie under to your kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, sir, but you will wish to know 
what has been the result of all the pains of an in- 
dulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish 
1 could gratify your curiosity with such a recital 
as you would be pleased with ; but that is what I 
am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, 
kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and in this re- 
spect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the 
education I have gotten ; but as a man of the 
world, I am most niisenibly deficient. One would 
have thought that, bred as I have been under a 
father, wlio has figured pretty well as vii homme 
des affaires, I might have been what the woi-ld 
calls a pushing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the 
truth, sir, there is hardly any thing more my re- 
Terse. I seem to be one sent into the world, to see, 
and observe ; and I vei-y easily compoiind with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there be any 
thing original about him, which shew s me human 
nature in a different light from any thing I have 
seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to 
" study men, theii- manners, and their ways ;" and 
for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice eve- 
ry other consideration. I am quite indolent about 
those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons 
of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the pre- 
sent hour, I am very easy with regard to any thing 
further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortu- 
nate and the wretched, does not much terrify me : 
I know that, even then, my talent for what coun- 
try folks call " a sensible crack," when once it is 
sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so 
much esteem, that even then— I would learn to be 
kappy*. However, I am under no apprehensions 

* The last shift alluded to here, must be the con- 
dition of an itinerant beggar. E. 



about that, for, though indolent, ret, so far as an 
extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not 
lazy ; and in many things, especially in tavern 
matters, I am a strict ceconomist ; not, indeed, for 
the sake of the money ; but one of the principal 
parts in my composition, is a kind of pride of sto- 
mach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any man liv- 
ing : above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea 
of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun— possibly 
some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I 
despise and detest. 'Tis this, and tliis alone, that 
endears oeconoiny to me. In the matter of books, 
indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors 
are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
particularly his Elegies; Thomson; Man if Feel- 
ing, a book I prize ntxt to the Bible ; Man of the 
JVorlfl ; S'^er/je, especially his SentimentalJourney ; 
M^PhersoTi''s Ossian, Sec. these are the glorious mo- 
dels after whi-h I endeavour to form my conduct, 
and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that 
the man whose mind glows wit!» sentiments light- 
ed up at iheir sacred ilarae— the man whose heart 
distends with benevolence to all the human nace- 
lle " who can soar above this little scene of things" 
—can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about 
which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex 
themselv^es! O how the glorious triumph swells my 
heart! I forget that I am a poor insignificant de- 
vil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up ajid down 
fairs and markets, when I hajipen to be in thein, 
reatling a page or two of Mankind, and " catching 
the raai\ners living as they rise," whilst the men 
of business jostle me on every side, as an idle in- 
cumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have 
by this time tired your patience ; so I shall con- 
clude Avith begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch— not 
my compliments, for that is a mere common-place 
story ; but my warmest, kindest wishes for her wel- 
fare ; and accept of the same for yourself, from. 
Dear sir, 

Yours, &c. 



The following is taken from the MS. prose pre- 
sented by our bard to Mr. Riddel. 

No. II. 

ON rummaging over some old papers I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in wliich I had deter- 
mined to write myself o>it ; as I w.is placed by for- 
tune among^ a class of men to whom my ideas would 



14S 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



have been nonsense. I had meant that the book 
should have Iain by me, in the fond hope, thi»t, some 
time or other, even after I was no more, my thoughts 
would fail into the hands of somebody capable of 
appreciating their value. It sets oif thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c. 
by R. B.— a man who had little art in making mo- 
ney, and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, 
a man of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and 
unbounded good will, to every creature, rational 
and irrational. As he was but little iaiBbted to 
scholastic education, and bred at a plo^^ij^^il, his 
performances must be strongly tinctured with his 
unpolished, rustic way of life ; but as I believe 
they are ri'ally his own, it may be some entertaui- 
ment to a curious observer of human nature, to see 
how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- 
sure of love, ambition, antiety, grief, with the like 
cares and passions, which, however, diversified by 
the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much 
alike, I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world, who do not 
want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion 
of their own abilities, to put them upon recording 
their observations, and allowing them the same im- 
portauce which they do to those which appear in 
print." Shenstone. 

" Pleasing, when youtli is long expired, to trace 
The forms our p-ncil or our pen designed 1 
Such was our youthful air, ami shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 

Ibid. 



April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads a 
young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it in 
a great measure deserves the highest encomiums 
that have been passed on it. If any thing on earth 
deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the 
feelings of gp*een eighteen, in the company of the 
mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an 
e(jual return of aifection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion between love, 
and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I have al- 
ways thought a fine touch of nature, that passage 
in a modern love composition, 

" As toward her cot he jogg'd along 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet, 'till I got once hear- 
tily in love ; and then rhyme and soi<g were, in a 
manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. 



timents, that remorse is the most painful sentiment 
that can embitter the huntan bosom. Any ordinary 
pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well under 
those calamities, in the procurement of which we 
ourselves have had no hand ; but when our own 
follies, or crimes, have made us miserable and 
wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at 
the same time have a proper penitential sense of 
our misconduct— is a glorious effort of self-com- 
mand. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
guish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our tolly or our guilt we owe. 
in every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say—" It was no deed of mine ;" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added—" Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worse far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 
Of guilt, perhips where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin I 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash .' 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, 

Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sen- 



March, 1784. 

I Itave often observed in the course of my ex- 
perience of human life, that every man, even the 
worst, has something good about him ; though very 
often nothing else than a happy temperament of 
constitution, inclining him to this or that virtue. 
For this reason, no man can say in what degree 
any other person, besides himself, can be, with 
strict justice, called nicked. Let any of the strict- 
est character for reguiaiity of conduct among us, 
examine impartially how many vices he has never 
been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental circum- 
stance intervening ; how many of the weaknesses 
of maiikind he has escaped, because he was out of 
the line of such temptation; and what often, if 
not always, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, 
because the world does not know all ; I say any 
man who can thus think, will scan the tlie failings, 
nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, 
with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind, commonly knowni by the ordina- 
ry phrase of blackguards ; sometimes farther than 
was consistent with the safety of my character: 
those who, by thoughtless prodigality, or head- 
strong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though 
disgraced by follies, nay sometimes " stained with 
guilt, ******* »," I have 
yet found among them, in not a few iusktances, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



119 



gorne of the noblest virtues, magiianimity, t?ene- 
rosLty, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mortal ; 
I have various sources of pLasure and e>»joynieut 
which are, in a manner, oeciiliar to mysi^lf ; or 
some here and there, such other out-of-the-way 
person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in 
the season of winter, more than the rest of the 
year. This. I believe, may be partly owiu^' to my 
misfortunes giving ray mind a melancholy cast ; 
but thei-e is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth"— 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, fa- 
vourable to every thing great and noble. There is 
scarcely any earthly object gives me more— I do 
not know if I should call it pleasure— but some- 
thing which exalts me, something which enrap- 
tures me— than to walk in the sheltered side of a 
wood, or high plantatioi), in a cloudy winter-day, 
and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, 
and raving over the plain. It is my best season for 
devotion ; my mind is wrapt up in a kind of en- 
thusi;ism to him, who, in the pompous language of 
the Hebrew bard, " walks on the wings of the wind." 
In one of these seasons, just after a train of mis- 
fortunes. I composed the following. 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. 

See Winter, a dirge. 



Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses writ 
without any real passion, are the most nauseous 
of all conceits ; and I have often thought that no 
man can be a proper critic of love-composition, 
except he himself, in one or more instances, have 
beeji a warm votary of this passion. As I have 
been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have 
been led into a thousand weaknesses and follies 
by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in 
my critical skill, in djstii.guishii'g foppery and con- 
ceit, from i-eal passion aiid nature. Whether the 
following song will stand the test, I will not pi-e- 
tend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say 
it was, at the time, genuine from the heart. 



Behind you hills, &c. 



See My Nanie 0. 



I think the whole species of young men, may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, 
which I shall call thu grave -dwd the merry ; though, 
by the bye, these terms do not with propriety 
enough express my ideas. The ^rave I sl.all cast 
into the usual division of thosi wlio are gojidftl on 
by the love of money, and those wlioic darling 



wish is to make a figure in the world. The mer- 
ry, are the men of pleasure of all denominations ; 
the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit, 
to have any settled rule of action ; but, without 
much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of 
nature : the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent, 
in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of 
natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life, generally, indeed, in poverty 
and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only 
evils to^^, who can sit gravely down, and make 
a repiii^Bpomparison between his own situation, 
and tliat of others ; and lastly, to grace the quo- 
rum, such are, generally, those whose heads ai"e 
capable of ail the towerings of genius, ami whose 
hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
an intercourse with that being to whom we owe 
life, witli every enjoyment that can render life 
delightful ; and to maintain an integritive conduct 
towards our fellow creatures ; that so, by forming 
piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit mem- 
bers for that society of the pious and the good, 
which i-eason and revelation teach us to expect 
beyond the grave: I do not see that the turn of mind 
and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, 
are in the least more inimical to tlie sacred inter- 
ests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, 
btistling ajid straining after the world's riches and 
honours; and I do not see but that he may gain 
heaven as well (which by the bye is no mean con- 
sideration), who steals tlu-ough the vale of life, 
anuisiug himself with every little tiower tiiat for- 
tune throws in his way ; as he who, straining 
striiight forward, and perhans bespattering all 
about him, gains some of life's little eminences, 
wlitre, after all, he can only see, and be seen, a 
little more conspicuously, thaii w!»ai, in the pride 
of his lieart, he is apt to term, the poor, indolent 
devil he has left behind hiin. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting ten- 
derness, in some of our ancient ballads, wliich shew 
them to l)e the work of a maiterly hand ; and it 
has often given me many a In art-ach to reflect that 
such glorious old birds— bards who very probably 
owed all their talents to native genius; yet have 
described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of dis- 
appointment, and the meltings of love, with such 
fine strokes of nature— th.at their very names (O 
how mortifying to a bard's vanity !) are now " Bu- 
ried among the wreck of ihings which were." 

O je illustrious names unknown ! who could feel 
so strongly, and describe so well ; the last, the 
meu}>est of the muses' train— one who, though far 
inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and 
with trembling wing would sometimes soar after 
you— a poor rustic bard unknown, p.iys this sym- 
pathetic pang to your memory. Some of )'ou tell 
us, with all the charms of verje, that you have been 
unfortunate in the woild— uifortunate in love : he, 
too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss 



150 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the wo- 
man he adored. Like you, all his consolation was 
his muse : she tauglit him in rustic measures to 
complain. Happy, could he have done it with your 
strength of imagination, and flow of verse I May 
the turf lie liglitly on your bones .' and may you 
now enjoy the solace and i-est, which this world 
rarely g^ives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings 
of poesy and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in ray MSS. and more 
than all. 

R. B. 



No. IIL 



To Mr. AIKEN. 

(The gentleman to 7vhom the Cotter^s Saturday 
Night is addressed.) 

Sir, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and 
settled r.ll our by-gone matters between us. After 
I had paid hun all demands, I made him the offer 
of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid 
out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By 
his account, the paper of a thousand copies would 
cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this 
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, 
but this, you know is out of my power ; so fare- 
well hopes of a second edition 'till I grow richer ! 
an epocha, which, I think, will arrive at the pay- 
ment of the Biitish national debt. 

Thei-e is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as not 
having it in my power to shew my gratitude to 
Mr. Ballantine, by publishing my poem of The 
Brigs of Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, if 
I thought I were capable, in a very long life, of for- 
getting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy, with 
which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes 
pleased with myself in ray grateful sensations ; but, 
I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in 
it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence 
of reflectien : but sheerly the instinctive emotion 
of a heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and 
movements within, i-especting the excise. There 
are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- 
certainty of getting soon into business ; the conse- 
quences of my follies, which may perhaps make it 
impracticable for mc to stay at home ; and besides 
I have for some time been pining under secret 
wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well 
know— the pang of disappointment, the sting of 
pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which 
never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, wlien 
attention is not called away by the calls of society, 
or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of 
social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intox- 
icated criminal under the hands of the executioner. 



All these i-easons urge me to go abroad, and to all 
these reas,ons I have only one answer— the feelings 
of a father. Tliis, in tlie present )nood I am in, 
overbalances every tiling, that can be laid in the 
scale against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, 
but it is a sentiment, which strikes home to my very 
soul : though sceptical in some points of our cur- 
rent belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for 
the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of 
our present existence ; if so then, how should I, 
in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Au- 
thor of existence, how should I meet the veproach- 
es of those, who stand to me in the dear relation 
of children, whom I deserted in the smiling inno- 
cency of helpless infancy ? O, thou great unknown 
Power ! thou almighty God .' who hast lighted up 
reason in my breast, and blessed me with immor- 
tality ! I have frequently wandered from that or- 
der and regularity necessary for the perfection of 
thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsa- 
ken me 1 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief, thickening 
over my folly-devoted head. Should 7.'ou, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your ap- 
plications for me, perhaps it may not be in my 
power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your friend- 
ly efforts. What I have written in the preceding 
pages, is the settled tenor of my present resolu- 
tion ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only 
threaten to entail farther misery— 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- 
plaint ; as the world, in general, has been kind t» 
me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time 
past, fast getting into the pining, distrustful snarl 
of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for 
the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud 
in the chance-tlirected atmosphere of fortune, while, 
all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least, never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, 
and man, a creature destined for a progressive 
struggle ; ajul that, however I might possess a warm 
heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the 
bye, was rather more than I could well boast), 
still, more than these passive qualities, there was 
something to be done. When all my school-fellows 
and youthful compeers (those misguided few ex- 
cepted, who joijied. to use a Gentoo phrase, the 
hailachores of the human race) were striking off 
with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one 
or othtr of the many path< of busy life, I was 
" standing idle in the market-place," or only left 
the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, 
to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



151 



You see, sir, that if to know one's errors were 
a probability of mending them, I sund a fair 
chaiice : but, according to the reverend Westmin- 
ster divines, though conviction must prectnle con- 
version, it is very far from always inn>lying it*. 



No. IV. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP, of DUNLOP. 

Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I am truly son-j' I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order for 
my copies, and incomparably more by the hand- 
some compliments you are pleased to pay my po- 
etic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is 
not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the 
titillations of applause, as the sons of Parnassus : 
nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor 
bard dances with rapture, when those, whose cha- 
racter in life gives them a right to be polite 
judges, honour him with their approbation. Had 
you been thoroughly acquainted with me, madam, 
you could not have touched my darling heart-chord 
more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to ce- 
lebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his 
Country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief!" 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of 
Hannibal ; the next was The Histurrj of Sir William 
fVallace : for several of my earlier years I had few 
other authors ; and many a solitary hour have 1 
stole out after the laborious vocations of the day, 
to shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate 
stories. In those boyish days I remember in parti- 
cular, being struck with that part of Wallace's sto- 
ry where these lines occur- 



soon as I intended. I have htre sent you a parcel 
of songs, &c. which never made their appearance, 
except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some 
of them may be no great entertainment to you, 
but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. 
The song, to the tune oC Etrick banks, you will 
easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even 
in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit ; 
both as a tolerable description of one of nature's 
sweetest scenes, a July evening ; and one of the 
finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest 
indeed wft,knovv any thing of. an amiable, beauti- 
ful, young woman* ; but I have no common friend 
to procure me that permission, without which, I 
would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, madam, what task the world 
would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, 
when any of the great condescend to take notice 
of him, should heap the altar with the incense of 
flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and 
godlike qualities and actions, should be recounted 
with the most exaggerated description. This, ma- 
dam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Be- 
sides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know 
nothing of your connexions in life, and have no 
access to where your real character is to be found 
—the company of your compeers : and more, I am 
afraid that even the most refined adulation is by 
no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your chai'aeter I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember ; the reception I got 
when I had tlie honour of waiting on you at Stair. 
I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know 
a good deal of benevolence of temper, and good- 
ness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations 
know how happy they could make some classes of 
their inferiors by condescension and afiability, they 
would never stand so high, measuring out with 
every look the height of their elevation, but con- 
descend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stiiirt. 



" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my 
line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of 
miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with 
as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to 
Loretlo ; and, as I explored every den and dell 
where I could suppose my heroic countryman to 
have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a 
rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be 
able to make a song on him, in some measure equal 
to his merits. 



No. VI. 

In the name of the Nine, Amen. 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a Warrant from 
Nature, bearing date the Twenty-fifth day of Janu- 
ary, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and 
fifty-nine^, Poet-Laureat and Bard in Chief, in and 
over the Districts and Countries of Kyle, Cu7ining- 
ham, and Carrick of old extent, To our trusty and 
well-beloved William Chalmers and John M'Atlatn, 
Students and Practitioners in the ancient and mys- 
terious Science of Confounding Bight and Wrong, 



No. V. 

To Mrs. STEWART, of STAIR. 

Madam, 1786. 

The huri7 of my preparations for going abroad, 

has hindered me from performing my promise so 



Right Trusty, 

Be it known unto you, that whereas, in the 
course of our care and watchings over the Order 
and Police of all and sundry the Manufacturers 



Miss A- 



t The song inclosed, is that given in the life of 
our poet ; beginning. 



* This letter was e^^dently written under the 
distress of mind occasioned by our poet's separa- 
tion from Mrs. Burns. E. 



'Twas e'en— the dewy fields were green, &c. 
X His birth-day. 



E. 



132 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



Retainers, and Venders of Poesy ; Bards, Poets, 
Poetasters, Rhyratrs, Jiuglers, Songsters, Ballad- 
singers, &c. &c. &c. 8cc. &c. male and female— 
"We have discovered a certain * * *, nefarious, 
abominable, and wicked Sonjf or Ballad, a copy 
■whereof We have here inclosed ; Our IVill there- 
fore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most 
execrable individual of that most execrable Sjie- 
cies, known by the appellation, phrase, and nick- 
name of The DeiVs Tell Nnute* : and after having 
caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye 
shall, at noontide of the day, put into, the said 
wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said 
nefarious and wicked Song, to be consumed by fire 
in the presence of all Beholders, in abhorrence of, 
and terrorem te, all such Compositions and Cotn- 
posers. And this in nowise ye leave undone, but 
have it executed in every point as this Our Man- 
date bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when 
in person We hope to applaud your faithfulness 
and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline, this twentieth day of No- 
Tember, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred 
and eighly-siit* 

God save the Bard, 



mutual friend. It has been told me by a gentle- 
man, to whom I shewed the performances, and who 
sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
whole impression is already exhausted. It m ere 
therefore much to be wished, for the sake of the 
youi;g man, that a second edition, more numerous 
than the former, could inunediately be printed ; as 
it appears certain tliat its intrinsic merit, and the 
exertion of the author's friends, might give it a 
more universal circulation than any thing of the 
kind, which has been published within my me- 
uior> •. 



No. VIII. 

From the REVEREND Mr. LAWRIE. 

Dear sir, 22rf December, 178(5. 

I last week received a letter from Dr. Black- 
lock, in wluch he expresses a desire of seeing you. 
I write this to you, that you may lose no time in 
waiting upon him, should you not yet have seen 



No. VII. 

Dr. BLACKLOCK 

To the REVEREND Mr. G. LAWRIE. 

Reverend and dear sir, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour long 
ago, not only as a testimony of your kind remem- 
brance, but as it gave me an opportunity of shar- 
ing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one of the most 
genuine entertainments, of which the human mind 
is susceptible. A number of avocations retarded 
my pi-ogress in reading the poems ; at last, howe- 
ver, I have finished that pleasing perusal. Many 
instances have I seen of nature's force and bene- 
ficence, exerted under numerous and formidable 
disadvantages ; but none equal to that, with which 
you have been kind enough to present me. There 
is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems ; a 
vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive 
turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor too 
waiTOly approved ; and I tliink I shall never open 
the book without feeling my astonishment renew- 
ed and increased. It wr.s my wish to have express- 
ed my approbation in verse ; but whether from de- 
clining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, 
it is at present out of my power to accomplish that 
agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, professor of morals in this univer- 
sity, had formerly read me three of the poems, and 
I had desired him to get my name inserted among 
the subscribers : but whether this was done or not 
I never could learn. I have little intercourse with 
Dr. Blair, but will take care to have the poems 
eommunicatcd to him by the intervention of some 

• Old baelielcrs. 

t Inclosed was the ballad, probably Holy Wil- 
lie's prayer. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your ris- 
ing fame, and I wish and expect it may tower still 
higher by the new publication. But, as a friend, I 
warn you to prepare to meet with your share of 
detraction and envy— a train, that always accom 
pany great men. For your comfort I am in great 
hopes that the number of your friends and admir- 
ers will increase, and that you have some chance 
of ministerial, or even * * • • patronage. Now, 
my friend, such rapid success is very uncommon, 
and do you think yourself in no danger of sutfer- 
ing by applause and a full purse ? Remember So- 
lomon's ad\'ice, which he spoke from experience, 
" stronger is he that conquers," &c. Keep fast 
hold of your rural simplicity and purity, like Te- 
lemachus, by Mentor's aid in Calypso's isle, or even 
in that of Cyprus. I hope you have also Minerva 
with you. I need not tell you how much a modest 
diffidence and invincible temperance adorn the 
most shining talents, and elevate the mind, and 
exalt and refine the invagination even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from sus- 
picion or evil report. I assure you I speak from 
love and good report, and good opinion, and a 
strong desire to see you shine as much in the sun- 
shine as you have done in the shade ; and in the 
practice as you do in the theory of virtue. This 
is my prayer in return for your elegant composi- 
tion in verse. All here join in compliments and 
good wishes for your further i>rospi rity. 

* The reader will perceive that this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our bard to 
give up his scheme of going to the West-Indies, 
and to try the fate of a new edition of his poems 
in Edinburgh, A copy of this letter was sent by 
Mr. Lawrie to Mr. G. Hamilton, aiid by him com- 
municated to Burns, among whose papers it was 
fcund. E. 



GENfiRAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



153 



No. IX. 



To Mr. CHALMERS. 



of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I 
hop'' I am incapable oC; and mcrciiiary servility, 
I ti list I shall ever have so much liouest pride as 
to detest. 



Edinburgh, 27th December, 1786. 
My dear friend, 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which there 
is hardly any forgiveness, ingratitude to friend- 
ship, in not writing you sooner ; but of all men 
living, I had intended to send you an entertaining 
letter, and by all tlie plodding, stupid powers, that 
in nodding, conceited majesty preside over the 
dull routine of business — a heaviJy-solemn oath 
this !— I am, and have been, ever since I came to 
Edinburgh, as unlit to write a letter of humour 
as to write a commentary on the Revelations. 



To make 5^011 some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, 
I inclose you two jjoems I have carded and spun 
since I past Glenbuck. One blank in the address 

to Edinburgh, " Fair B ," is the heavenly Miss 

Burnet, daughter to lord Monboddo, at whose 
house I have had the honour to be more than 
once. There has not been any thing nearly like 
her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the great Creator has formed, since Mil- 
ton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription-bills, 
• and have written to Mr. Ballantine and Mr. Aiken 
to call on you for some of them, if they want 
Ihem. My direction is, care of Andrew Bruce, 
■merchant, Bridge-street. 



To the EARL of EGLINTON. 

JNIy lord, Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

As I have but slender pretensions to pliiloso- 
phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen 
of the world; but have all those national preju- 
dices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in 
the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely 
any thing to which I am so feelingly alive as the 
honour and welfare of my country ; and, as a poet, 
I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons 
and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the 
veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart pant 
more ardently, than mine, to be distinguished : 
though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every 
side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess 
how much I was gratified with the countenance 
and approbation of one of my country's most il- 
lustrioxis sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me 
yesterday on the part of your lordship. Your 
munificence, my lord, certainly deseives my very 
grateful acknowledgments ; but your patronage 
is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I 
am not master eiioiigh of the etiquette of life to 
k;;ow. whether there be not some impropriety in 
troui)ling your lordship with my thanks, but my 
hcai't whispered me to do it. From the emotions 



No. XI. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me 
for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real 
truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib — I 
wished to have written to Dr. Moore befoi-e I 
wrote to yon ; hut, though every day since I re- 
ceived yours of Dec. 30th, the idea, the wish, 
to write to him has constanily pressed on my 
thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. 
I know his fame and character, and I am one of 
" the sons of little men." To write him a mere 
mattei'-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, 
would be disgracing the little chai-acter I have ; 
and to write the author of The View of Society 
and Manners, a letter of sentiment— I declare 
every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. 
His kind interposition in my behalf I have alrea- 
dy experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the 
other day, on the part of lord Eglinton, with ten 
guineas by way of subscription for two copies of 
my next edition. 

The word you object to, in the mention I have 
made of my glorious countryman and your immor- 
tal ancestoi*, is, indeed, borrowed from Thomson ; 
but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. 
I distrusted my own judgment on your finding 
fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some 
of the literati here, who honour me with their cri- 
tical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. 
The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have 
not a copy of it. I have not composed any thing 
on the great Wallace, except what you have seen 
in print ; and the inclosed, which I will print in 
this edition*. You will see I have mentioned 
some others of the name. When I composed my 
Vision long ago, I had attempted a description of 
Koyle ; of which the additional stanzas are a part, 
as it originally stood. My heart glows with a 
wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the 
saviour of his countmj, which sooner or later I 
shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet ; alas, madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to be- 
lieve that my abilities deserved some notice ; but 
in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, 
when poetry is and has been the study of men of 
the first natural gmius, aided with all the powers 
of polite learning, polite hooks, and polite com- 
pa y— to be dragged forth to the full glare of 

* Stanzas in the Vision, beginning '" By state- 
ly tower or palace fair,'' and ending with the first 
Duan. E. 

IT 



154 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



learned and polite observation, with all my imper- 
fections of avkuard rusticity, and crude unpo- 
lished idens on my head — I assure you madam, I 
do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the 
consequences. The novelty of a poet in my ob- 
scure situation, without any of those advantages 
which are reckoned necessary for that charactei*, 
at least at this time of day, has raised a partial 
tide of public notice, which has borne me to a 
height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, 
my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and 
too surely do I see that time when the same tide 
will leave me, and recede as far perhaps below 
the mark of truth. I do not say this in the i-idi- 
culous aifectation of self-abasement and modesty. 
I have studied myself, and know what ground I 
occupy ; and, however a friend or the world may 
differ from me in that particular, I stand for my 
own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tena- 
ciousness of property. I mention this to you once 
for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish 
to hear or say more about it.— But 

" When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes" 

you will bear me witness, that, when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood, unintoxicated 
with the inebriati..g cup in my hand, looking for- 
ward with rueful resolve to the hastening time 
when the blow of calumny should dash it to the 
ground, with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 



Your patronizing me and interesting yourself 
in my fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; 
it exalts me in my own idea : and whether you 
can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. 
Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms to the 
heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of 
the descendant of the immortal Wallace ? 



To Dr. MOORE. 

^ir, 1787. 

Mrs. Dunlop lias been so kind as to send me ex- 
tracts of letters she has had from you, where you 
do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and 
his woi'ks. Those who have felt the anxieties and 
solicitudes of authorship can only know what 
pleasure it gives to b noticed in such a manner, 
by judges of the first character. Your criticisms, 
sir, I receive with reverence ; only I am sorry 
they mostly came too late : a peccant passage or 
two that I would certainly have altered were gone 
to the press. 

The hope to 6e admired for ages is, in by far 
the greatest part of those even who are authors of 
repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my pain, my 
first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, 
to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the 
hamlet, while ever-changing language and man- 
ners shall allow me to be relished and understood. 
I am very willing to admit tJiat I have some poeti- 



cal abilities ; and as few if any writers, either nlO' 
ral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the 
classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly 
mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a 
different phasis from what is common, which may 
assist originality of thouglit. Still I know very 
well the novelty of my character has by far tll»i 
greatest share in the learned and polite notice I 
have lately had : and in a language wliere Pope 
and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shen- 
stone and Gray drawn the tear; where Tliomson 
and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lj't- 
telton and Collins described the heart, I am not 
vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. 



No. XIII. 

FROM Dr. MOORE. 

Sir, Clifford-street, January 23rf, 1787, 

I have just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop, for ti-ansmitting to you extracts from my 
letters to her, by much too freely and too careless- 
ly written for your perusal. I must forgive her, 
however, in consideration of her good intention, 
as you will forgive me, I hope, for tlie fi-eedom I 
use with certain expressions, in consideration of 
ray admiration of the poems in general. If I may 
judge of the author's disposition from his works, 
with all the other good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of 
men by one of their own number, whom you have 
the happiness to resemble in ease and curious fe- 
licity of expression. Indeed the poetical beauties, 
however original and brilliant, and lavishly scat- 
tered, are not all I admire in your works ; the love 
of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all 
the objects of humanity, and the independent spi- 
rit which breathes through the whole, give me a 
most favourable impression of the poet, and have 
made me often regret that I did not see the po- 
ems, the certain effect of which would been my 
seeing the author, last summer, when I was longer 
in Scotland than I have been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at Edinburgh and I think you pecu- 
liarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, who, 
I am informed, interests himself very much for 
you. I beg to be remembered to him ; nobody 
can have a wanner regard for that gentleman 
than I have, which, independent of the worth of 
his character, would be kept alive by the memory 
of our common friend the late Mr. G-eorge 

B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent inclosed 

in a letter to a sonnet by Miss Williams, 

a young poetical lady, which she wrote on reading' 
your Mountain-daisy ; perhaps it may not displease 
you*. 

* The sonnet is as follows : 

While soon " the garden's flaunting flowers" decay, 
And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



155 



I have been trying; to add to the number of 
your subscribei-s, but find many of my acquaint- 
ance are already among tliem. I have only to 
add, that with every sentiment of esteem, and the 
most cordial good wishes, 

I ain, your obedient humble servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XIV. 



To Dr. MOORE. 



Sii-, Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. 

Pardon my seeming negket in delaying so long 
to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in 
your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many 
months ago I knew no other employment than 
following the plough, nor could boast any thing 
higher than a distant acquaintance with a coun- 
try clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses 
me ; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I 
do not fear their judgment : but genius, polished 
by learning, and at its proper point of elevation 
in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently 
meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn 
the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; 
but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that 
the novelty of my character, and the honest na- 
tional prejudice of my countrymen, have borne 
me to a height altogether untenable to my abi- 
lities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, please, 
sir, return her in my name my most grateful 
thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea 
in hopeless despondt-ncy. I had never befoi'e 
heard of her ; but the other day I got her poems, 
which for several reasons, some belonging to the 
head, and others the offspring of the ht-art, give 
me a great deal of pleasure. I have little i)reten- 
sions to critic lore ; there are I think two charac- 
teristic features in her poetry — the unfettered w ild 
flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



The " Mountain-daisy," cherish'd by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, sl»all never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard, 
His heaven-taught numbers fame herself will 
guard. K. 



No. XV. 
From Dr. MOORE. 

Dear sir, Clifford-street, 2»th February, 1787. 

Your letter of iho 15th gave me a gn at deal of 
plei'siire. It is not surprisi.-.g th;it >ou nuprove 
in correctness and taste considcniig where you 
have been for some time past. Ar.d I dare sw^ear 
there is no danger of your admitting any polish 
which might weaken the vigour of your native 
powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nau- 
seous affectation of decrying your own nu rit as a 
poet, an affectation which is displayed with riost 
ostentation by those who have the greatest shiire 
of self-conceit, and which only adds undeceiving 
falsehood to disgusting vanit} . For you to deny 
the merit of your poems would be arraigning the 
fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society is not 
yet ready, I have sent you the former edition, 
which 1 beg you will accept as a small ma'-k of 
my esteem. It is sent by sea to the care of Mr. 
Creech, and along with these four volumes for 
yourself, I have also sent my Medical Sketches in 
one volume, for my friend Mrs. Dunlop, of Dun- 
lop : this you w ill be so obliging as to transmit, 
or, if you chance to pass soon by Dunlop, to give 
to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is 
so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good 
fortune that befalls you. For, you are a very great 
favourite in my family ; and this is a higher com- 
pliment than perhaps you are aware of. It in- 
cludes almost all the professions, and of course is 
a proof that your writings are adapted to various 
tastes and situations. My youngest son, who is at 
Winchester school, writes to me, that he is trans- 
lating some stanzas of your HalUnv E'en into Latin 
verse, for the benefit of his comrades. This union 
of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, from the ce- 
ment of Scottish partiality, with which tliey are 
all somewhat tinctured. Even your translator, who 
left Scotland too early in life for recollection, is 
not without it. 



I remain, with great sincerity, 

Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



To the EARL of GLENCAIRN. 

My lord, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, 
which I was told was to be got in town ; but I am 
truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has 
spoiled a " human face divine." Ihe enclosed 
stanzas I intended to have written below a pic- 
ture or profile of your lordship, could \ have been 



15^ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



so happy as to procure one with any thing of a 
likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say 
to a friend, there is my noble patron, my gene- 
rous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish 
these verses. I conjure your lordship by the ho- 
nest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of 
benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which 
compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me 
this petition*. I owe much to your lordship ; and, 
what has not in some other instances always been 
the case with me, the weight of the obligation is 
a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as inde- 
pendent as your lordship's, than which I can say 
notliing more ; and I would not be beholden to 
favours that would crucify my feelings. Your 
tlignified character in life, and manner of support- 
ing that character, are flattering to my pride ; and 
I Avould be jealous of the purity of my grateful 
attaciunent, where I was under the patronage of 
one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me then, 
luy lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honour to be, 

Your lordship's highly indebted, 
And ever grateful humble servant. 



No. XVII. 

To the EARL of BUCHAN. 

My lord, 

The honour your lordship has done me, by your 
notice and adWee in yours of the 1st instant, I 
shall ever gratefully remember. 

*■• Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your lordship touches the dai'ling chord of my 
heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at 
Scottish storj' and Scottish scenes. I wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage 
through my native country ; to sit and muse on 
those once hard-contended fields, where Caledo- 
nia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through 
broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching 
the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in 
song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthu- 
siastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking 
phantom strides across my imagination, and pro- 
nounces these emphatic words, /, Wisdom, dwell 
-vith Prudence. 



* It does not appear that the earl granted this 
request, nor have the verses alluded to been found 
among the MSS. 



This, my lord, is unanswerable. I mu st returu 
to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in 
my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, 
while the drops of life warm my heart, gi-atitude 
to that dear-loved country in which I boast my 
birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished 
sons, who have honoured me so much with their 
patronage and approbation, shr.ll, while stealing 
through my humble shades, ever distend my bo- 
som, and at times draw forth the swe lling tear. 



No. XVIII. 



Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, 
to erect and keel) vp a headstone in memory of 
poet Fergusson, 1787. 



Session-house, within the Kirk sf Caiioti' 
gate, the Inventy-sccond day of Fe- 
bruary, one thousand seven hundred 
eighty seven years. 



Sederunt of the INIanagers of the Kirk and Kirk 
Yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day the treasurer to the said funds pro- 
duced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the 
sixth current, which was read and appointed to be 
engrossed in their sederunt book, and of wliich 
letter the tenor follows. " To the honourable bail- 
lies of Canongate, Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am 
sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fer- 
gusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
talents for ages to come will do honour to our Ca- 
ledonian name, lie in your church-yard among tlie 
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

" Some memoi-ial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a 
tear over the " naiTow house" of the bard who is 
no more, is surely a tiibute due to Fergusson's 
memory : a tribute I wish to have the honour of 
paying. 

" I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me 
to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to re- 
main an unalienable property to his deathless 
fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your 
very homble servant (sic subscribitur), 

ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consideration 
of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. 
Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and 
hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty 
to the said Robert Bums, to erect a headstone at 
the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and to 
keep up and preserve the same to his memory in 
all lime coming. Extracted foith of the records 
of the managers by 

WILLIAM SPROTT, Clci-k. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



Ij7 



No. XIX. 



My tleai* sir, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a sel- 
fish ung^rateful fVllow, ha\-ii.g n ceived so many 
repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet 
never putting- pen to paper to say, thank you ; 
but if you knew what a devil of a life my con- 
science has led me on that account, your good 
heart would think yourself too much avengi d. By 
the bye, there is nothing in tlie whole frame of 
man, which seems to me so unaccountable as that 
thing called conscience. Had tlie troublesome 
yelping cur powers sufficient to prevent a mis- 
chief, he miglit be of use ; but at the beginning 
of the business, his feeble efforts are to the work- 
ings of passion as the infant frosts of an autumnal 
morning to the unclouded fervor of the rising sun : 
and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the 
wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native 
consequences of folly, in the very voitex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience and harrows us with 
the feelings of tlie d*****, 

I have jndlosed you, by way of expiation, some 
verse ajid prose, that, if they merit a place in your 
truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. 
The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott sent 
it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

Born, September 5th, 1751.— Died, 16th October, 

1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sonows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is 
to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Ro- 
bert Fei'gusson." 



" The poet's fate is here in emblem shewn, 
He ask'd for bread, ami he received a stone." 

It is I believe upon poor Butler's tomb that this 
is written. But how many brothers of Parnassus, 
as well as poor Butler and poor Fergusson, have 
as^ed for bread, and been served with the same 
sauce I 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? Oh 
generous magistrates ! *******, celebrated over the 
three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives a poor 
poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's me- 
mory ! most generous ! *******^ once upon a time 
gave that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen 
pence for a copy of his works. But then it must 
be considered that the poet was at this time abso- 
lutely starving, and besought his aid with all the 
earnestness of hunger. And over and above he re- 
ceived a *****»**^ worth at least one third of the 
value, in excliange, but which I believe the poet 
afterwards very ungi-atefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of see- 
ing you in Edinburgh ; and, as my stay will be for 
eight or ten days, I wish you or ***** would take 
a snug well-aired bed-room for me, where I may 
have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning 
cup of tea. But by all accounts it will be a mat- 
ter of some difficulty to see you at all, unless your 
company is bespoke a week before hand. There 
is a great rumour here concerning your great in- 
timacy with the Duchess of , and other ladies 

of distinction. I am really told that " cards to in- 
vite fly by thousands each night ;"' and, if you had 
one, I suppose there would also be "bribes to 
your old secretary." It seems you are resolved to 
make hay while the sun shines, and avoid if possi- 
ble the late of poor Fergusson, *************** 
Qiiccreiida peciiniaprimiim est, virtus post nianmos, 
is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise 
it while in this country, but probably some philo- 
sopher in Edinburgh has tauglit you better sense. 

Pray are you yet engraving as well as printing ? 
—are jou yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front. 
With bays and wicked rhyme ujjon't ?" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend to 
matters that more concern myself; so, as the Aber- 
deen wit says, adieu dryly, tve sal drink phan wc 
meet*. 



No. XX. 

Extract of a Letter from —~ 

Sth March, 1787. 

I am truly happy to know you have found a 
friend in ********* ; his patronage of you does him 
great honour. He is truly a good man ; by far 
the best I ever knew, or perhaps ever shall know 
in this world. But I must not speak all I think 
of him, lest I should be thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magis- 
trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? 
I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as 
Shakespeare says. " in the olden-time." 



* The above extract is fi-om a letter of one of 
the ablest of our poet's correspondents, whicli 
contains some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, 
that we should have been happy to have inserted, 
if they could have been authenticated. The writer 
is mistaken in supposing the magistrates of Edin- 
burgh had any share in the transactions respecting 
the monument erected for Fergusson by our bard ; 
this, it is evident, passed between Burns and the 
Kirk Session of the Canongate. Neither at Edin- 
burgh, nor any where else, do magistrates usually 
trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a 
poor poet is furnished, or how Jus grave is adorn- 
ed. E. 



158 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. XXI. 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 



Madam, Edinburgh, March 22J, 1787. 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
>ery little while ago, / had scarce a friend but the 
stubborn pride of my orvn bosom; now I am dis- 
tinguished, patronised, befriended by you. Your 
friendly advices, I will not give them the cold 
name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I 
have made some sniall alterations in what I before 
had printed. I have the advice of some very j u- 
dicious friends among the literati here, but with 
them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the 
privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl 
of Glencaim, to whom I owe more than to any 
man, does me the honour of giving me his stric- 
tures : his hints, with respect to impropriety or in- 
delicacy, I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views 
and prospects ; there I can give you no light. 
It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos, ere the infant sun 
'Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound.*' 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far my 
highest pride ; to continue to desei-ve it is my most 
exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish 
story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have 
no dearer aim than to have it in my power, uu- 
plagued with the routine of business, for which 
heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make lei- 
surely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on 
the fields of her battles ; to wander on the roman- 
tic banks of her rivers ; and to muse by the state- 
ly towers or venerable ruins, onee the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suffers by the 
consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indo- 
lence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay shining 
abilities, and some of the nobler virtues may half 
sanctify a heedless character ; but where God and 
nature have entrusted the welfare of others to his 
oare ; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are 
dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or 
strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions 
will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and three 
hundred pounds by my authorship ; with that sum 
I intend, so far as I may be said to have any in- 
tention, to return to my old acquaintance, the 
plough, and, if I meet with a lease by which I can 
live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give 
up poetry : being bred to labour secui-es me inde- 
pendence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes 
have been my only, enjoyment. If my practice 
second my resolution, I shall have principally at 
heart the serious business of life ; but while fol- 
lowing ray plough, or building up my shocks, I 



shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only 
feature of my character, which gave me the notice- 
of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam. I have given you the 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as they 
are in his own bosom. 



No. XXII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Madam, Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. 

There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses 
of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my part, 
madam, I trust I have too much pride for servili- 
ty, and too little prudence for selfishness. I have 
this moment broken open your letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself—" 

so I shall not trouble you with any fin&. speeches 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on 
my heart and say, I hope I shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad, in i)rint, for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to •, only, by the way, I must tell you that I was 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, 
through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane 
in this place ; but we can settle that when I have 
the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London, the morn- 
ing before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXIIL 
To Dr. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I received the books and sent the one you men- 
tioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating 
the coverts of imagination for metaphors of grati- 
tude. I thank you, sir, for the honour you have 
done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly re- 
member it. To be highly pleased with your book 
is what I have in common with the world ; but to 
regard these volumes as a mark of the author's 
friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratifica- 
tion. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or 
a fortnight, and, after a few pilgrimages over some 
of the classic ground of Caledonia, Coivden Knoives, 
Banks of Tarroxv, Tiveed, &c. I shall return to 
my rural shades, in all likelihood, never moi-e to 
quit them. I have formed many intimacies and 
fi-iendships here, but I am afraid they are all of 
too tender a construction, to bear carriage a hun- 
dred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the 

* Adam Smith. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



159 



fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to of- 
fei- ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will 
by no means entitle me to a settled correspondence 
with any of you, who are the perma)ient lights of 
genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
If once this tangent flight of mine were ovtr, and I 
were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in 
my old circle, I nu>y probably endeavour to return 
her poetic compliment in kind. 



No. XXIV. 

Extract of a letter 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. 

———Your criticisms, madam, I understand very 
well., and could have wished to have pleased you 
better. You ai*e right in your guess that I am not 
very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my supe- 
riors, have so flattered those who possessed the ad- 
ventitious qualities of wealth and jjowei-, that I am 
determined to flatter no ci'eated being, either in 
prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, 
&c. as all these respective genti-y do by my bard- 
ship. I know what I may expect from the world, 
by and bye ; illiberal abuse, and perhaps contempt- 
uous neglect. 

I am happy, madam, that some of my own fa- 
vourite pieces are distinguished by your particular 
approbation. For my dream, which has unfortu- 
nately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in 
four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appear- 
ing, at Dunlop, in its defence in person. 



To the REVEREND Dr. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

Reverend and much respected sir, 

I leave Edinburgh to-raorrow morning, but could 
not go without troubling j ou with half a line, sin- 
cerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, 
and friendship, you have shewn me. I often ftlt 
the embarrassment of my singular situation ; drawn 
forth from the veriest shades of life, to the glare 
of remark ; and honoured by the notice of those 
illustrious names of my country, whose works, 
while they are applauded to the end of tim'-. will 
ever instruct and mend the heart. Howevi r the 
meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world, 
might attract notice, and honour me witli the ac- 
quaintance of the permanent liglits of geiiius ;;nd 
literature, those, v.'ho are truly btiiefactors of the 
immortal nature of man ; I knew very well, that 
my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of 
pi-eserving that character, when oiice the novelty 
was over : I hud made up my miisd, that abuse, or 
almost even neglect, will not surprize me lu my 
quariersj 



I have sent you a proof impression of P.engo's 
work for me, done on Indian paper, as a trifling, 
but sincere testimony with what heart-wavjn gra- 
titude I am, Jkc. 



From Dr. BLAIR. 

Argijle-squarc, Edinburgh, 4th May, 1787. 

Dear sir, 

I was favoured this forenoon with your veiy 
obliging lettei', together with an impression of your 
portrait, for which I return you my best thanks. 
The success you have met with, I do not think 
was beyond your merits ; and if I have had any 
small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great 
pleasure. I know no way in which literary per- 
sons who are advanced in yeai's, can do more ser- 
vice to the world, than in forwarding the efforts 
of rising genius, or bringing forth unknown merit 
from obscurity. I was the first person who brought 
out to the notice of the world, the poems of Os- 
sian ; first, by the Fragments of ancient Poetry, 
which I published, and afterwards, by my setting; 
on foot the undertaking for collecting and pub- 
lishing the IVorks of Ossian ; and I have always 
considered this as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very sin- 
gular ; and in being brought out all at once from 
the shades of deepest privacy to so great a share 
of public notice and observation, you had to stand 
a severe ti"ial. I am happy that you have stood it 
so well ; and, as far as I have known or heard, 
though in the midst of many temptations, without 
reproach to your character and behariour. 

You are now, I i>resume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life ; and I trust will conduct your- 
self there, with industry, prudence, and honour. 
You have laid the foundation for just public es- 
teem. In the midst of those employments, wJiich 
your situation will render proper, you will not, I 
hope, neglect to promote tiiat esteem, by cultivat- 
ing your genius, and attending to such productions 
of it, as may i-aise your cliaracter still higher. At 
the same time, be not in too great a haste to come 
forward. Take time and leisure to improve ajid 
mature your talents For on any st-coud produc- 
tion you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will 
very much depend. There is no doubt a gloss of 
novelty, which time wears off". As you very pro- 
perly hint yourself, you are not to be surprized, 
if iii your rural retreat you do not find yourself 
surrounded with that glare of notice and applause 
which here shone upon you. No man can be a good 
poet without being somewhat of a philosopher. He 
must lay his account, that any one, who exposes 
hiiuself to public observation, will occasionally meet 
with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it is al- 
ways best to ov< rlook and despise. He will be inclin- 
ed sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear from 
public view. He will not aftect to shine always ; 
that he may at proper seasons come forth with 
more adv;Uitage and energy. He will not think 
himself neglected if he be not always praised. I 



IGO 



GENERAL CORRESPOXDEXCE. 



have taken the liberty, you see, of an old man, 
to give advice and make reflections, which your 
owii good sense will I dare say render unnecessary. 
As you mention your being just about to leave 
town, you are going, I should suppose, to Dum- 
fries-shire to look at some of Mi-. Miller's farms. 
I heartily wish the offers to be made you there, 
may answer ; as I am persuaded you will not ea- 
sily find a more generous and better-hearted pro- 
prietor to live under, than Mr. Miller. When you 
return, if you come this way, I will be happy to 
see you, and to know concerning your future plans 
of life. You will find me by the 22d of tliis month, 
not in my house in Argyle»square, but at a coun- 
try house at Restalrig, about a mile east from 
Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing 
you all success and prosperity, I am, with real re- 
gard and esteem. 

Dear sir, 

Youx's sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVII. 
FROM Dr. MOORE. 

Dear sir, Clifford-street, May 23d, 1787. 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. Creech, 
and soon after he sent me the new edition of your 
poems. You seem to think it incumbent on you to 
send to each subscriber a number of copies propor- 
tionate to liis subscription money, but you may de- 
pend upon it, few subscribers expect more than 
one copy, whatever they subscribed ; I must in- 
form you however that I took twelve copies for 
those subscribers for whose money you were so 
accurate as to send me a receipt, and lord Eglin- 
toun told me he had sent for six copies for him- 
self, as he wished to give five of them as presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this last 
edition, are very beautiful, particularly the IVinter 
Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green grow the 
Rashes, and the two songs immediately following ; 
the latter of which is exquisite. By the way, I 
imagine, you have a peculiar talent for such com- 
positions, which you ought to indulge*. No kind 
of poetry demands more delicacy, or higher po- 
lishing. Horace is more admired on account of his 
Odes than all his other writings. But nothing now 
added is equal to your Vision, and Cotter''s Satur- 
day Night. In these are united fine imagery, na- 
tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of 
language and thought. It is evident that you al- 
ready possess a great variety of expression and 
command of the Engiisli language, you ought 
therefore to deal more sparingly, for the future, 
in the provincial dialect— why should you, by using 
that, limit the number of your admirers to tliose 
who understand the Scottish, when you can extend 
it to all persons of taste, who understand the En- 
glish language ? In my opinion you should i)]un 
some larger work, than any you have as yet at- 



* The songs interspersed in the Correspondence 
ivith Mr, Thomson, bear ample testimony to the 
accuracy of Dr. Moore's j udgmeut. E. 



tempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper sub- 
ject, and arrange tlie plan in your mind, without 
beginning to execute any part of it till you have 
studied most of the best English poets, and read a 
little more of history.— Tht; Greek and Roman 
stories you can read in some abridgment, and soon 
becoine master of the most brilliant facts, which 
must highly delight a poetical mind. You should 
also, and very soon may becoine master of the hea- 
then mythology, to which tliere are everlasting al- 
lusions ill all the poets, and whieli in itself is 
charmingly fanciful. What will require to be stu- 
died witli more attention, is modern histoi-y , that 
is, the histoi-y of France and Great Britain, from 
the beginning of Henry the seventh's reign. I 
know very well you have a mind capable of at- 
taining knowledge by a shorter process than is 
commonly used, and I am certain you are capable 
of making a better use of it, when attained, than 
is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of 
writing to me when it is inconvrnient, and make 
no apology when you do write, for having post- 
poned it— be assured of this, however, that I shall 
always be happy to hear from you. I tliink my 

friend Mr. told me that you had some poems 

in manuscript by you, of a satirical and humorous 
nature (in wliieh, by the way, I think you very 
strong), which your prudent friends prevailed on 
you to omit ; particularly one called Somebody's 
Confession ; if yon will entrust me with a sight of 
any of these, I will pawn my word to give no co- 
pies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal of 
them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of hus- 
bandry, your chief occupation : this I hope will 
not prevent your making occasional addresses to 
the nine ladies who have shewn you such favour, 
one of whom visited you in the auld clay biggin, 
Virgil, before you, proved to the world that there 
is nothing in the business of husbandry inimical 
to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that you may af- 
ford an example of a good poet being a success- 
ful farmer. I fear it will not be in my power to 
visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endea- 
vour to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and 
converse with you. If ever your occasions call you 
to this place, I make no doubt of your paying me 
a visit, and you may depend on a very cordial wel- 
come from tliis family. 
I am, dear sir. 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XXVIII. 

To Mr. WALKER, Blair of Athole. 

Inverness, 5th September, 1737. 
My dear sir, 

I have jtist time to write the foregoing*, and to 
tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the 

* The humble pelillon of Bruar-ivatcr to tM 
duke of J I hole. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



161 



^flTusion of a half-hotiv I spent at Bruar. I do not 
mean it w\s extcinrore, for I have endeavoured to 

brush it up as well as Mr. N 's chat, and the 

josrging of the chaise, would allow. It eases my 
heai-t a good deal, as rhyme is the coin witli which 
a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What 
I owe to tlie noble family of Atholc. of the first 
kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of 
the last, so help me God in my hour of need .' I 
shall never forget. 

The " little angel-band !" I declare I prayed for 
them very sincerely to-day at the fall of Fyars. I 
shall never foi*get the fine family-piece I saw at 
Blair: the amiable, the truly noble dtichess, with 
her smiling little sei-aph in her lap, at the head of 
the table : the lovely " olive-plants," as the Hebrew 
bard finely says, round the happy mother: the 
beautiful Mrs. G— ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. 
I wish I had the powers of Guido to do them jus- 
tice ! My lord duke's kind hospitality— inarkedly 
kind indeed. Mr. G— of F— 's charms of conver- 
sation—sir W. M— 's friendship. In shoit, the re- 
collection of all that polite, agreeable company, 
raises an honest glow in my bosom. 



No. XXIX. 

To Mr. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, nth September, 1787. 
My dear brother, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a 
tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near six 
hundred miles, M'indi:.gs included. My farthest 
stretch was about ten miles beyond I'lverness. I 
went through the heart of the Highlands by Crieff, 
Taymouth, the famous seat of lord Breadalbane, 
down the Tay, among cascades and druidical cir- 
cles of stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the duke of 
Athole ; thence cross Tay and up one of his tri- 
butary streams to Elair of Athole, another of the 
duke's seats, where I had the honour of spending 
nearly two days with his grace and family ; thence 
many miles through a wild country, among cliffs 
grey with eternal snows and gloomy, savage glens, 
until 1 crossed Spey and went down the stream 
tlirough Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music ; 
Badenoch, &c. until I reached Grant castle, where 
I spent half a day with sir James Grant and fami- 
ly ; and then crossed the country for Fort George, 
but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat 
of Macbeth ; there I saw the identical bed, in which 
tradition says king Duncan was murdered : lastly 
from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, 
and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stonehive, where 
.Tames Burness, from Montrose, met me by appoint- 
ment. I spent two days among our relations, and 
found our aunts Jean and Isabel still alive, ^nd 
hale old women. John Caird, though born the same 
year Nviih our father, walks as vigorously as I can : 
they have had several letters from his son in New- 
York. William Brand is likewise a stout old fel- 
low ; but further particulars I delay until I see 
you, which will be in two or three weeks. The 
rest of my stages are not worth rehearsing : warm 



as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns or 
fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodie of Bro- 
die's one night, and dined at Gordon castle next 
day with the duke, duchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by 
means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall 
hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 
;My duty and many compliments from the north 
to my mother ; and my brotherly compliments to 
the rest. I have been trjing for a birth for Wil- 
liam, but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. 



From Mr. R***»*. 

Sir, Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

'Twas only yesterday I got colonel Edmon- 
stoune's answer, that neither the words of Down 
the burn Davie, nor Daintie Davie (I forgot which 
you raentiouedj were written by colonel G. Craw- 
ford. Next time I meet him I will inquire about 
his cousin's poetical talents. 

Inclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and 
a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and musi- 
cal talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast to you*. 



• These incriptions, so much admired by Burns, 
are below. 

WRITTEN IN 1768, 

For the Salictum* at Ochtertyre, 

Salubritatis voluptatisque caus^ 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludein olim infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepituque, 

Innocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor. 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 

Prope hunc fontem peilucidum, 

Cum quodam juventutis amico superstite, 

Sicpe conquiescam, senex, 

Contentus modlcis, meoque iaitus! 

Sin aliter— 

^vique paululum supersit, 

Vos silvulae, et amici, 

Caeteraque amoena 
Valete, diuque laetamini ! 

ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 



* Salictum— Grove of willows, willow ground; 



162 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



Nobody can give you better liints as to 5"our pre- 
sent plan than he. Rective also Oineron Cameron, 
which seemed to make such a deep impression on 
your imag-ination, that I am not without hopes it 
ivill beg-et something to delight the public in due 
time And no doubt the circumstance of this little 
tale, might be varied or extended, so as to make 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds might 
have kept Omeron at home, whilst his countrymen 
were in the field. His station may be somewhat 
varied, without losing his sijuplicit) and kindness 
* * • *, A group of characters male and female, 
connected with the plot, might be formed from 
his family, or some neighbouring one of rank. It 
is not indispensable that the guest should be a man 
of high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, unless 
to call forth the exercise of generosity and faith- 
fulness grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To in- 
troduce state affairs, would raise the style above 
comedy, though a small spice of them would season 
the convei'st of swains. Upon this head I cannot say 
more than to recommend the study of the charac- 
ter of Eumseus in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. 
Pope's translation, is an exquisite and invaluable 
drawing from nature, that would suit some of our 
country elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the re- 
ward of hospitality, and honest attachment to mis- 
guided principles. When you have once thought 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee, its arts and manner^. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life, 

Near that transparent fountain. 

With some surviving friend of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 

If vain these humble w ishes, 

And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends. 

And whatever else is dear, 

Farewell, and long may ye flourish I 



Above the door of the house, writtten in 1775. 

Mihi meisque utinam contingat, 

Prope Taichi raarginem, 

Avito in Agillo, 

Bene vivere fausteque mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teitb, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope ! 



of a plot, and brought the story into form, Dr, 
Blacklock or Mr. H. M'K.-nzie may be useful in 
dividing it into acts and scenes ; for in these matters 
one must pay some attention to certain rules of 
the drama. These you could afterwards fill up at 
your leisure ; but whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study the 
spirit of my name-sake's dialogue*, which is natu- 
ral without being low, and, under the trammels of 
verse, is such as country people in these situations 
speak every day. You have only to bring down 
your own strain a very little. A great plan such 
as this, would concenter all your ideas, which fa- 
cilitates the execution and makes it a part of one's 
pleasure. I approve of your plan of retiring from 
din and dissipation to a farm of \ery moderate size, 
suflicient to find exercise for mind and body, but 
not so great as to absorb better things. And, if 
some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and stea- 
dily pursued, it will be moi'e lucrative than most 
farms, in this age of rapid improvement. Upon 
this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, per- 
mit me to go a step further. Let those bright ta- 
lents, which the Almighty has bestowed on you, 
be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of 
supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An ima- 
gination so varied and forcible as yours, may do 
this in many diffei-ent modes ; nor is it necessary 
to be always serious, which you have been to good 
purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a 
comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are 
due to the heat and inexperience of youth, and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never hav- 
ing written a line, which dyiiigthey would wish to 
blot. In particular I wish you to keep clear of the 
thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a hun- 
dred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dange- 
rous when one is supposed to extend the slips and 
weaknesses of individuals to their sect or party. 
About modes of faith, serious and excellent men 
have always differed, and there are certain curious 
questions, w hich may afford scope to men of meta- 
physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or tem- 
per. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, 
it is sufficient tiiat all our sects concur in their 
\'iews of morals. You will forgive me these hints. 
Well I what think you of good lady Clackman- 
nant ? It is a pity she is so deaf and speaks so in- 
distinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hospita- 
lity and elevation of mind were conspicuous amidst 
plain fare and plain furniture. I shall be glad to 
hear from you at times, if it were no more than to 
shew that you take the effusions of an obscure man 
like me in good part. I beg my best respects to 
Dr. and Mrs. Blacklockt, 
And am, sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 

* Aliau Ka.iisay m the Gentle Shepherd. E. 
t Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan. 



t TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 



These inscriptions, and the translations, are in 
tJ»e band-writing of Mr. Ramsay. E. 



In one of the wars betwixt the crown of Scot- 
land and the lords of the isles, Alexander Stcwari, 



OEXERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. XXXI. 



l-^rom Mr. J. RAMSAY, 
To the REVEREND W. YOUNG, 

At Erski7ie. 

^^^^ ""'. Ochtertijre, 29.d October, 1787. 

Allow me to intioduce Mr. Burns, whose poems 

I dare say have given you much pleasure. Upon 

a personal acquaintance I doubt not you will relish 

earl of Mar (a distinguished character in tlie fif- 
teenth century), and Donald Stewart, earl of Caith- 
ness, had the command of the royal army. They 
marched into Lochaber, with a view of attacking- 
a body of M'Donalds, commanded by Donald Baf- 
loch, and posted upon an arm of the sea which 
intersects that country. Having timely intelli- 
gence of their approach, the insurgents got off pre- 
cipitately to the opposite shore in their curraghs 
or boats covered with skins. The king's troops' 
encamped in full steurity, but the M'Donalds re- 
turning about midnight, surprised them, and kill- 
ed the earl of Caithness, and destroyed or disper- 
sed the whole army. 

The eai-l of Mar escaped in the dark without 
any attendants, and made for the more hilly part 
of the country. In the course of his Hight he 
came to the house of a poor man, whose najue was 
Omeron Cameron. The landlord welcomed his 
guest with the utmost Icindness ; but as there was 
no meat iii the house, he told his wife he would 
dn-eetly kill maol odhnr*, to feed the stranger. 
"Kill our only cow," snid she, "our own and our 
little children's principal support !" More attentive 
however to tlie present call for hospitality, than to 
the remonstrances of his wife, or the future exigen- 
cies of his family, he killed the cow. The best and 
tenderest parts were immediately roasted before 
the fire, and f\eniy of innirich, or Highland soup, 
prepared to conclude their meal. The whole fa- 
mily and their guest ate heartily, and the evening 
was spent, as usual, in telling tales and singing 
songs beside a cheerful fire. Bed-time came ; 
Omeron brushed the hearth, spread the cow-hide 
upon it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The 
eai-1 wrapped his plaid about him, and slept soundly 
On the hide, whilst the family betook themselves 
to rest in a corner of the same room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, 
and at his departure his guest asked Cameron, if 
he knew whom he had entertained ? " You may 
probably," answered he, « be one of the king's of- 
ficers ; but whoever you are, you came here in 
distress, and here it wa.s my duty to protect you. 
1 o what my cottage afforded vou was most wel- 
f ?"*; " '*^""i- guest then." replied the other, 
is the earl of Mar ; and if hereafter you fall in- 



163 

the man as much as his works, in which there is 
a rich vein of intellectual ore. He has kaard some 
of our Highland hienigs or songs played, which 
delighted him so much that he has made words to 
one or tv o of them, which will render these more 
popular. As he has thought of being in your 
quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it la- 
hour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a 
san.ple of those sweet artless melodies, which only 
want to be married (in Milton's phrase) to con- 
genial words. I uish we could conjure up the 
ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a 
pmn.on of his enthusiasm for those neglected airs, 
which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the 
present hour. But if it be true that Corelli 
(vvhom I looked on as the Homer of music) is out 
ot date. It IS no proof of their taste ; this, however 
IS going out of my province. You can shew Mr.' 
Bui-ns the manner of singing these same luenigs, 
and if he can humour it in words, I do not des- 
pair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, 
m the original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so seldom 
in this neighDourhood. It is one of the greatest 
drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has so 
tew opportunities of cultivating acquaintances at 
a distance. I hope, however, some time or other 
to have the pleasure of beating up your quarters 
at Erskuie, and of hauling you away to Paisley, 
&c. meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs. 
Boog and Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by ., give him a billet on 

our fnend Mr. Stuart, who I presume does not 
dread the frowns of his diocesan. 
I am, dear sir. 

Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



Maol odhar, i. e. the brown hurable emv. 



to any misfortune, fail not to come to the castle of 
K.ldrummie." " My blessing be with you, noble 
stranger," said Omeron ; " if I am ever in distress 
you shall soon me." ' 

The royal army was soon after reassembled and 
the insurgents, finding themst Ives ui.able to make 
head against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds how- 
ever got notice that Omeron had been the earl's 
host, and forced him to fly the countrv. He came 
with his wife and children to the gate of Kildrum- 
mie castle, and required admittance with a con- 
fidence, which hardly corresponded with his habit 
and appearance. The porter told hhn rudely, his 
lordship was at dinner and must not be disturbed. 
He became noisy and importunate; at last his 
name was announced. Upon hearing that it was 
Omeron Cameron, the earl started from his seat, 
and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of poetical 
stanza, '• I was a night in his house, and fared most 
plentifully, but naked of clothes was my bed. 
Omeran from Breugach is an excellent fellow "' 
He was introduced into the great hall, and receiv- 
ed with the welcome he desirved. Upon hearing 
how he had been treated, the earl gave him a four 
nierk land near the castle. And it is said, there 
are still in the country a number of Camerons de- 
scended of this Highland Euniseus. 



t^ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. XXXH. 

From Mr. RAMSAY, 

To Dr. BLACKLOCK. 

Dear sir, Ochtertyre, 2nh October, 1787. . 

I received yours by Mr. Bums, aud give you 
many thaiiks for giving m^ an opporuiMty of con- 
versing with a man of his calibre. He will, I 
doubt not, let vou know what past between us on 
the subiect of my hints, to which 1 hav. made ad- 
ditions in a letter I sent him t'other day to your 
care. 



You may tell Mr, Burns when you see him, 
that colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, that 
his cousin colonel George Crawford was no poet, 
but a greater smger of songs ; but that his eldest 
brother Robert (by a former mamage) had a great 
tiu-n that way, having written the words of tAe 
Bush aboon Traquair and Tweedside. That the 
Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stew- 
art of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of 
Ml-. John Belches. The colonel never sa^v Ro- 
bert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty- 
five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and 
had lived long in France. Lady Anker^^lle ,s his 
niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. 
An epitaph-monger like me might moralize upon 
the vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet 
efiusions. But I have hardly room to offer my 
best compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and am, 
Dear doctor. 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J, RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 
From Ml-. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 2Sth October, 1787. 

My dear sir, . 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from tins 
place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the op- 
portunity of telbiig you that I am yet alive tole- 
rablv well, and always in expectation of being 
better. By the much-valued letters before me, I 
see thLt it was my duty to have given you this in- 
telligence about three years and nine months ago ; 
and have nothu-g to allege as an excus. , but that 
we poor, busy, bustling bodies in London, are so 
much taken up with the various pursuits in which 
i»c are here engaged, that we seldom thu.k of any 
person, creature, piace, or thing, that is afaseut. 
But tliisis not altogether the case with me ; for I 
often think of you, and Hornie, and i?»/.^e/, and 
an unfaihomed de^th, and lo^van brunstane, a 1 m 
the same minute, although you and tluy are (as I 
suppose) at a considerable distance. I flatter my- 
self, however, with the pleasing thought, that you 
and I shall meet some time or oihor, either in 
Scotland or England, If ever you come hith.r, 
you will have the satisfaction of seeing your po- 



ems relished by the Caledonians in London, fuT! 
as much as they can be by those of Edinburgh, 
We frequently repeat some of your verses in our 
Caledoniai: societv ; and you may believe that 1 
am not a little vain, that I have had some share 
in cultivating such a genius. I was not absolute- 
ly certain that you were the author, till a tew 
days ago, when I made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. 
M-Comb's eldest daughter, who Uves in town, and 
who told me that she was informed of it by a let- 
ter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom you 
had been in company wh.n in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention ol 
visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis. It won d 
afford matter for a large poem. Here you would 
have an opportunity of indulging your vein m the 
study of mankind, perhaps to a greater degree 
than in any city upon the face of the globe ; for 
the inhabitants of London, as you know, ai-e a col- 
lection of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, who 
make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Bums, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest 
of her amiable children. May the Father of the 
universe bless you all with those pruiciples and 
dispositions, that the best of parents took such un- 
common pains to instil into your minds, fi-om your 
earUest infancy ! May you Uve as he did ! if you 
do you can never be unhappy. I feel myself 
grown serious all at once, and affected in a man- 
ner I cannot describe. I shall only add, that it is 
one of the greatest pleasures I promise myself be- 
fore I die, that of seeing the family of a man 
whose memory I revere more than that of any 
person that ever I was acquainted with. 
I am, my dear friend. 
Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



No. XXXIV. 



From Mr. • 



Sir Gordon Castle, 3Ut October, 1787, 

if you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss, in leaving this place so suddenly 
I should condemn you to stai-ve upon cauld kaii 
for ae towmont at least; and as for Dick Lafme* 
vour travelling companion, without banmnghun 
wV a' the curses contained in your letter (which 
he'll no value a bawbee), I should give him nought 
but Stra'bogie castocks to chew for sax ouks, or 
ay until he was as sensible of his error as you seem 
to be of yours. 



Your song I shewed without producing t lie au- 
thor ; and it was judged by the duchess to be the 
production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of it 
by her grace's desue to a Mrs. MTh ersou,in Ba- 

* Mr. NicoL 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



i05 



denoch, who sings Morag, and all other Gaelic 
songs ill great perfection. I have recorded it 
likewise, by lady Charlotte's desire, in a book be- 
longing to lur ladyship ; where it is in company 
with a groat iuany other poems and verses, some 
of the writers of which are no less eminent for 
their political than for their poetical abilities. 
"When the duchv^ss was informed that you were 
tlie author, she wished you had written the ver- 
ses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the duke's cover, 
it will likewise come free ; that is, as long as the 
<Iuke is in tliis country. 

I am, sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXV. 
Prom the REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 

Sir, Linsheart, 14th November, 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post mark 
October 25th, came to my hand only this day, and 
to testify my punctuality to my poetic eng-age- 
ment, I sit down immediately to answer it in kind. 
Your acknowledgment of my poor but just eaco- 
niiuins on your surprising genius, and your opi- 
nion of my rhyming excursions, are both, 1 think, 
by far too high. The difference between our two 
tracks of education and ways of life is entu'ely in 
your favour, and gives you the preference every 
manner of way. I know a classical education 
will not create a versifying taste, but it mightily 
improves and assists it ; and though, wliere both 
these meet, there may sometimes be ground for 
approbation, yet where taste appears single, as it 
were, and neither cramped nor supported by ac- 
quisition, I will always sustain the justice of its 
prior claim to applause. A small portion of taste, 
this way, I have had almost from childhood, espe- 
cially in the old Scottish dialect ; and it is as old 
a thing as I remember, my fondness for Christ 
kirk <)' the green, which I had by heart ere I was 
twelve years of age, and which some years ago I 
attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I was 
young I dabbled a good deal in these things : but 
on getting the black gown I gave it pretty much 
over, 'till my daughters grew up, who, being all 
good singers, plagued me for words to some of 
their favourite tunes, and so extorted these effu- 
sions, which have made a public appearance be- 
yond my expectations, and eontrary to my inten- 
tions; at the same time that I hope there is notliing 
tn be found in them uncharacteristic, or unbecom- 
ing the cloth, which I would always wish to see 
respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in*, I am sorry 
I cannot give it so far as I could wish, ar.d you 
perliaps expect. My daughters, who were my only 
intelligencers, are all /oris faniiliatc, and tlie old 



* A plan of publishing a complete c«IU'orion of 
Scottish songs, &c. 



woman their mother has lost that taste. There 
are two from my own pen, which I might give you 
if wortli the while. One to the old Scotch tune 
of Dumbarton's drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as your 
noble friend the duchess lias, I am told, heard of 
it. It was squeezed out of me by a brother par- 
son ill her neighbourhood, to accommodate a new 
Highlaiul reel for the marquis's bii-th day, to tlie 
stanza of 

"Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly, 8tc. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may have 
it from a brother of mine, Mr. James Skinner, wri- 
ter in Edinburgh, who I believe can give the mu- 
sic too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have heard 
sftid to be done by the catholic priest, Geddes, and 
which hit my taste much. 

" There was a wee wifcikie, was coming frae the 

fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her mei- 

kle care ; 
It took upo' the wifie's heait, and she began to 

spew. 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish a binna fou, 
/ wish, circ. izirc." 

I have heard of another new composition, by a 
young jiloughnutn of my acquaintance, that I am 
vastly pleased with, to the tune of The humours 
of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the music, I am 
told, is of Irish original. I have mentioned these, 
such as they are, to shew my readiness to oblige 
you, and to contribute my mite, if I could, to the 
patriotic work you have in hand, and which I wish 
all success to. You have only to notify your mind, 
and what you want of the above shall be sent 
you. 

Mean time, while you sre thus publicly, I may 
say, employed, do not sheath your own proper and 
piercing weapon. From what I have seen of yours 
already, I am inclined to hope for much good. 
One lesson of virtue and morality delivered in 
your amusing stile, and from such as you, will 
operate more than dozens would do from such as 
me, who shall be told it is our employment, and be 
never more minded. Whereas from a pen like 
yours, as being one of the many, what comes will 
be admired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard wiil leave an impi-ession, especially 7vheu 
example goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred. 
Else, by my troth, I'll no be glad ; 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry, 
Maun ay be harland in their trade, 

And siie maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, and 
in my other character, all happiness and heavenly 
direction, 

I remii-!, w-th esteem, 
Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNKRr 



166 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. XXXVI. 
From Mrs. **»****. 



-k Castle, 30th Noveinber, 1787. 



Sii% A- 

I hope you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your punc- 
tual performance of your parting promise, that 
has made me so long in acknowledging it, but 
merely the difficulty I had in getting the Highland 
songs you wished to have, accurately noted ; they 
are at last inclosed ; but how shall I convey along 
•with them those graces they acquired from the 
melodious voice of one the fair spirits of tlie hill 
of Kildrummie ! These I must leave to your ima- 
gination to supply. It has powers sufficient to 
transport you to her side, to recall her accents, 
and to make them still vibrate in the ears of me- 
mory. To her I am indebted for getting the inclo- 
sed notes. They are clothed with " thoughts that 
breathe, and words that bum." These, however, 
being in an unknown tongue to you, you must 
again have recourse to that fertile imagination of 
yours to intei-pret them, and suppose a lover's de- 
scription of the beauties of an adored mistress- 
why did I say unknown ? The language of love 
is an universal one, that seems to have escaped 
the confusion of Babel, and to be understood by 
all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so 
many things, persons, and places in your northern 
tour, because it leads me to hope you may be in- 
duced to revisit them again. That the old castle 
of K*******k, and its inhabitants, were amongst 
these, adds to my satisfaction. I am even vain 
enough to admit your very flattering application 
of the line of Addison's ; at any rate allow xne to 
believe that " friendship will maintain the ground 
she has occupied," in both our hearts, in spite of 
absence, and that when we do meet, it will be as 
acquaintance of a score of years standing ; and on 
this footing consider me as interested in the future 
course of your fame so splendidly commenced.— 
Any communications of the progress of your muse 
will be received with great gratitude, and the fire 
of your genius will have power to warm, even us, 
frozen sisters of the north. 

The friends of K*******k and K*******e unite 
in cordial regards to you. When you incline to 
figure either in your idea, suppose some of us read- 
ing your poems, and some of us singing your songs, 
and my little Hugh looking at your picture, and 
you'll seldom be wrong. We remember Mr. N. 
with as much good will as we can do any body, 
who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, sir ; I can only contribute the ividow^s 
mite to the esteem and admiration excited by your 
merits and genius, but this I give as she did, with 
all my heart— being sincerely yoiu-s, E. R. 

No. XXXVII. 

To the EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 



I have weighed, long and seriously weighed my 
situation, my hopes and turn of mind, ai:d am fully 
fixtd to my scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. 
I wish to get into the excise ; I am told that your 
lordship's interest will easily procure me the grant 
from the comntissioners ; and your lordship's pa- 
tronage and goodness, which have already rescued 
me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, em- 
bolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise 
put it in my power to save the little tie of hvmr 
that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and 
three sisters, from destruction. There, my lord, 
you have bound me over to the high-^st gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but 
I think he will probably weather out the remain- 
ing seven years of it ; and after the assistance 
which I have given and wUl give him, to keep the 
family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have 
rather better than two hundred pounds, and in- 
stead of seeking what is almost impossible at pre- 
sent to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, 
with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in a 
banking hoi»se, a sacred deposit, excepting only 
the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old 
age : * * * * 

These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved 
from the matures t deliberation ; and now I am 
fixed I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my 
resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage 
is the strength of my hopes ; nor have I yet ap- 
plied to any body else. Indeed my heart sinks 
within me at the idea of applying to any other of 
the great who have honoured me with their coun- 
tenancec I am ill qualified to dog the heels of 
greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and 
tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold 
promise as the cold denial ; but to your lordship 
I have not only the honour, the comfort, but the 
pleasure of being 

Your lordship's much obliged 

And deeply indebted humble servant. 



No. XXXVIIL 



To 



DALRYMPLE, Esq. 



Of ORANGEFIELD. 



Dear sir, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success 
with you, that he is determined by a coup de main 
to complete his purposes on you all at once, in 
making you a poet. I broke open the letter you 
sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; pnd, as I 
saw they were extempore, said to myself they were 
very well : but when I saw at the bottom a name 
that I shall ever value with grateful respect, " I 
gapit wide but naelhing spak." I was nearly as 
nmcli struck as the friends of Job, of afi^iclion- 
bearing memory, when they sat down with him 
seven days and seven nights, and spake not a 
word. 



My lord, 

I know your lordship will disapprove of my 
ideas in a request I am going to make to you, but 



I am naturall)'^ of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared jiuagiuation regained its 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



167 



consciousness, and resumed its functions, I cast 
about what this mania of yours might portend. 
M> foreboding ideas had the wide stretch ol pos- 
sibility ; and several events, great in their magni- 
tude, and important in their consequences, occur- 
red to my fai.cy. The downfall of the conclave, 
or Uie crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal coro- 
net to lord George G , and tlie prottstaut 

interest ; or St. Peter's keys to ***** * 

You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with 
my Latin, in " auld use and w out." The noble 
earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and 
interested himself in my concerns, with a good- 
ness like that benevolent being, whose image he so 
ricldy bears. He is a stronger proof of the immor- 
tality of the soul, than any that philosophy ever 
produced. A mind like his can never die. Let 
the worshipful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass 
J. M. go into thfcir primitive nothing. At best 
they are but ill digested lumps of chaos, only one 
of tliem strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and 
the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on 
with princely eye at '• the war of elements, the 
wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." 



gine a more helpless state than his, whose poetic 
fancy unfits him for the world, and whose charac- 
ter as a schohir gives him sojue pretensions to the 
pulitessc of life— yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I tliank heaven, my star lias been 
kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas above 
the peasant's shed, and I have an independent for- 
tune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who pre- 
tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- 
man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to 
ti'aduce the moi-als of such an one as I am, and 
so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late 
most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. Witli 
a tear of gratitude I thank you, sir, for the warmth 
w ith which you interposed in behalf of my con- 
duct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the 
sport of whim, caprice, and passion— but reverence 
to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I 
liope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, 
to make you for your goodness but one— a return 
which, I am persuaded, v ill not he unacceptable — 
the honest, warm wishes of a gi'ateful heart for 
your happiness, and every one of that lovely Hock, 
who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever ca- 
lumny aim the poisoned shaft at thentymny friend- 
ship be by to wai'd the blow i 



No. XXXIX. 
To SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. XL. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 



Sir, December, 1787. 

Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and 
worthy friend, has informed me how much you 
are pleased to interest yourself in jny fate as a 
man, and (what to me is i,ncomparably dearer) my 
fame as a poet. I have, sir, in one or tw o instan- 
ces, been patronized by those of your character 
in life, when I was introduced to their notice by 
****** friends to them, and honoured ac- 
quaintances to me ; but you are the first gentle- 
man in the country whose benevolence and good- 
ness of heart has interested him for me, unsolici- 
ted and unknown. I am not master enough of the 
etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay 
to inquire, whetlier formal duty bade, or cold pro- 
priety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, 
as I am convinced, from the light in wliich you 
kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to 
believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the nee- 
dy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper 
life, who honour him with a little notice of him or 
his works. Indeed the situation of poets is gene- 
rally such, to a proverb, as may, in soine measure, 
palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they 
have at times been guilty of. I do not think pro- 
digality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant 
of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent 
inattention to oeconomy, is almost insepai-able 
from it ; then there must be in the heart of eve- 
ry bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sen- 
sibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever 
keep him out of the way of those windfalls of for- 
tune, which frequently light on hardy impudence 
and root-licking servility. It is not easy to ima- 



Edinburgh, 21st Jaiiuarrj, 1788. 

After six weeks confinement, I am beginning 
to walk across the room. They have been six 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me 
unfit to i-ead, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could 
resign life as an officer resigns a commission : for 
I would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, by 
selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; and, 
God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I 
march to the campaign, a starving cadet : a little 
more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want 
bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like 
some other soldiers, to liave as much fortitude or 
cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I 
leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall pay mj 
grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



No. XLI. 

tXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 12fh Ecbruanj, 1783. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. Re- 
ligion, my honoured madam, has not only been all 
my life my chief dependence, but my dearest en- 
joyment. I have indeed been the luckless vielim 



168 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



of wayAvard follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been 
" more fool than knave." A mathematician with- 
out religion, is a probable character ; an irreligi- 
ous poet, is a monster. 



No. XLII. 
To Mrs. DUXLOP. 

Madam, Mossgiel, 7th March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Febru- 
ary, affected me most, so I shall begin my answer 
where you ended your letter. That I am often a 
sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess, 
but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, 
to find out when it was employed against you. 
I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a great deal worse 
than I do the de\-il ; at least as Milton describes 
Jiim ; and though I may be rascally enougli to be 
sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in 
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot ap- 
pear in any light, but you are sure of being res- 
pectable—you can afford to pass by an occasion to 
display your wit, because you may depend for 
fame on your sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, 
you know you can rely on the gratitude of many 
and the esteem of all ; but God help us who are 
wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of 
Coila*. I may say to tlie fair painter who does 
me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, 
the poet, of his muse Scota, from which, by the 
bye, I took the idea of Coila : ('tis a poem of Beat- 
tie's in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you 
have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, but o'my feg«, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie. 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie !" 



No. XLIIL 

To Mr. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, 2,\st March, 1788. 
Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was riding through 
a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, between Gal- 
loway and Ayrshire ; it being Sunday, I turned 
my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual 
songs ; and your favourite air, captain Okean, com- 
ing at length in my head, I tried these words to 
it. You will see that the first part of the tune 
must be repeatedt. 

* A lady (daugherof Mrs. Dun lop) was making 
a picture from the description of Coila in the Vi- 
sion. E. 

t Here the bard gives the first stanza of the 
Chevalier's Lament. 



I am tolei-ably pleased Avith these verses, but as 
I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with 
you to try if they suit the measure of the music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench, that ever 
picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am 
fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trou- 
ble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some 
queries respecting farming ; at present, thv- world 
sits such a load on my miud, that it has effaced al- 
most evei-y trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments, and good wishes tO 
Mrs C leghorn. 



No. XLIV. 
From Mr. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

SaughtoJi Mills, 27th April, 1788. 

My dear brother farmer, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 
31st ult. and consider myself greatly obliged to 
you, for your attention in sending me the song to 
my favourite air. Captain Okean. The words de- 
light me much, they fit the tune to a hair. I wish 
you would send me a verse or two more ; and if 
you have no objection, I would have it in the Ja- 
cobite stile. Suppose it should be sung after the 
fatal field of Culloden by the unfortunate Charles. 
Tenducci personates the lovely Mary Stewart in 
the song Oueen Mary''s Lamentation. Why may 
not I sing in the person of her great-great-great 
grandson*? 

* Our poet took this advice. The whole of this 
beautiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is 
below. 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves return- 
ing, 

The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the 
vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morn- 
ing:, 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair, 

W^hile the lingering moments are numbered by 
care ? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singl- 
ing. 

Can sooth tlie sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these val- 

leys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can fin* 

none. 



GENERAL CORRESPOSIDENCE. 



im 



Any skill I have in country business you may 
truly CGinniund. Situation, soil, customs of coun- 
tries may vary from each other, hutfanner Atten- 
tion is a good farmer in every place. I beg to 
he«r from you soon. Mrs. Cleghonj joins me in 
best compliments. 

I ani, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
M'ord, yoiir very sincerv.' friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLV. 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 



Maiichline, 28th April, 1788. 



Madam, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great in- 
tleed, as I assure you they made my heart ache 
with penitential pangs, even though I was really 
not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsun- 
day, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; 
but that is not all. As I got the offer of the ex- 
cise business without solicitatijn ; and as it costs 
me only six months attendance for instructions, to 
entitle me to a commission ; which commission lies 
by me, and at any future period, on my simple pe- 
tition, can be resumed ; I thought five and thirty 
poujids a year was no bad dernier resort for a poor 
poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick him 
down from the little eminence to which she has 
lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending these 
instructions, to have them completed before Whit- 
sunday. Still, madam, I prepared with the since- 
rest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came 
to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on 
Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had 
slept in an apartment, where the force of the 
winds and rains was only mitigated by being sif- 
ted through numberless apertures in the windows, 
walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to stir out of 
bed, witli all the miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see, madaju, the truth of the French max- 
im, Le vrai n'' est pas toiijours le vrui-semblable ; 
your last was so full of expostulation, and was 
something so like the language of an offended 
friend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- 
dence, wliich I had with grateful pleasure set down 
^s one of the greatest enjoyments of my future 

fe. 



Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Drijden , 
and Tasso, were all equally strangers to me : but 
of this more at large in my next. 



But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so lojal, in hot bloody trial, 
A!a^ ! can I make vou no swe<'fer retarnl 



No. XLVI. 

From the REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 

Dear sir, Linshart, 2Uh April, 1788. 

1 received your last with the curious present 
you have favoured me with, and would have made 
proper acknowledgments before now, but that I 
have been necessarily engaged in matters of a dif- 
fereiit complexion. And now that I have got a 
little respite, I make use of it to thank you for 
this valuable instance of your good-will, and to as- 
sure you that, with the sincere heart of a true 
Scotsman, I highly esteem both the gift and the 
giver : as a small testimony of which I have here- 
with sent you for your amusement (and in a form 
which I hope you will excuse for saving postage) 
the two songs I wrote about to you already. 
Charming Nancy is the real production of genius 
in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the 
time of its appearing, with no more education thau 
what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfather's 
fireside, though now, by the strength of natural 
parts, he is clerk to a thrivirig bleachfield in the 
neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find 
in it simplicity and delicacy, with some turns of 
humour, that will please one of your taste ; at 
least it pleased me when I first saw it, if that can 
be any recommendation to it. The other is en- 
tirely descriptive of my own sentiments, and you 
may make use of one or both as you shall see 
good*. 

* CHARMING NANCY. 

A song by a Buchan Ploughman. 
Tune—" Humours of Glen.'''' 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their 
pain : 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion I'll strive to be plain, 
I'll ask no more ti-easure, I'll seek no more plea- 
sure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain, 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel, 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain : 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Hti dress is quite decent when ta'en in the 
main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in sta- 
ture ; 

My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain, 

Like Phcebus adorning the fair i-uddy morning, 
Her bright eyes are sparkluig*, her brows are se- 
rene. 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 
My chanmng, sweet Naucy, wilt tbou b^ my 
ain ? 

Y 



170 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



You will oblige me by presenting my respects 
to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given such 
high approbation to my poor Latinity ; you may 

The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 
Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen; 

She's well shap'd and slender, true hearted and 
tender, 
My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

I'll seek thro' the nation for some habitation, 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain. 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my 
ain. I 

I'll work at my calling to funiish thy duelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou shah not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow tliee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 



let him know, that as I have likewise been a dab- 
bler in Latin poetry, I have two things that T 
would, if he desires it, submit, not to his judgment, 
but to his amusement ; the one, a translation of 
Chrisfs kirk o' the green, printed at Abei'dtpn 
some years ago ; the other Batrachomijomachia 
Homeri latinis vestita cum additamcntis, given iu 
lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr. C. 
will know Seria non semper delectant, noti joca 
semper. Scinper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from. 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLVII. 
To Professor DUGALD STEWART. 



I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be last- 
ing, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my 
ain. 
But M'hat if my Nancy should" alter her fancy. 

To favour another be fonvard and fain ? 
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 

Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my 



THE OLD MA^'S SONG. 

Tune—" Dumbarton's Drums."' 

By the REVEREND J. SKINNER. 

O why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O ; 
For how happy now ajn I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns, and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing, O; 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claething, O. 

We have liv'd all our lifetime contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O ; 
It's true we've been but poor, 
And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never repin'd nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss, 
And what fuither could we wiss, 
To be pleas'd wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O : 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O, 

And these, I'm certain, are 

More desirable by fai-. 
Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 



Sir, Matichline, 3d May, 1788. 

I inclose you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude 
have any influence with that great, unknown Be- 
ing, who frames the chain of causes and events ; 
prosperity and happiness will attend your visit to 
the continent, and return you safe to your native 
shore. 

^Vherever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as my 
pri^-ilegc, to acquaint you with my progress in my 
trade of rhymts ; as I am sure I could say it with 
truth, that, next to my little fame, and the ha\-ing 
it in my power to make life more comfortable to 
those, whom nature has made dear to me, I shall 
ever regard your countenance, your patronage, 
your friendly good offices, as the most valued con- 
sequence of my late success in life. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 

Of changes that abnost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folks up and down. 
Both in country and in town, 

Who now live but scrimply, and barely, O, 

Then why should people brag of prosperity ? O: 
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity, O ; 

Indeed we've been in want, 
And our living been but scant, 
Yet we never were reduc'd to need charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 
Where we've long been a father and mither, O, 
And tho' not of stone and lime. 
It will last us a' our time. 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll dejjart with a good commendation, O, 
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss. 
To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us ? O. 

There is nothing in it all to confound us, O ; 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 

And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



171 



No. XLVni. 

Extract of a letter 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Mmichline, 4th May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know 
whether the critics will agree with me, but the 
Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is 
indeed a species of writing entirely new to me ; 
and has filled my head with a tliousand fancies of 
emulation : but, alas ! when I read the Georgics, 
and then survey my own powers, "tis like the idea 
of a Shetland poney, drawn up by the side of a 
thorough-bred hunter, to surt for the plate. I own 
I ajn disappointed in the Mneid. Faultless cor- 
rectness may please, a|||^oes highly please the 
lettered critic : but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a 
critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in 
many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I 
had the Odyssexj by me, I could parallel many pas- 
sages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no 
means improved. Homer. Nor can I think there is 
any thing of tliis owing to the translators ; for, 
from every thing I have seen of Dryd«n, I think 
him, in genius and fluency of language. Pope's 
master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form 
an opinion : in s»me future letter, you shall have 
my ideas ^y^m ; though I am conscious my criti- 
cisms mu^P^ very inaccurate, and imperfect, as 
there I have ever felt and lamented my want of 
ieai'iiing most. 



No. XLIX. 



ed with a splendid cai-pet, and the g:ay table spar- 
kled with silver and china. 'Tis now about term- 
day, and then' lias bet ji a revolution among those 
creatures, who, though, in appearance, partakers, 
and equally noble partakers of the same nature 
with niadame, are from time to time, their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, expe- 
rience, genius, time, nay a good part of their very 
thoughts, sold for months and years, * * * 
»»»»»*« jjQj Qjjjy jy jjjg necessi- 
ties, the convenieneies, but the caprices of the 
impoitaut few*. Vfe talked of the insignificant 
creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general stu- 
pidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils 
the honour to commend them. But light be the 
turf upon his breast, who taught, " Reverence thy- 
self." We looked down on the unpolished wi-etch- 
es, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as 
the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ranible, or tosses in air in the wan- 
tonness of his pride. 



No. L. 

To THE SAME, 

AT Mr. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, iZth June, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see. 
My heart, unti'avell'd ,fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

Goldsmith, 



To THE SAME. 

Madam, 2Tth May, 1788. 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no pur- 
pose, to account for that kiud partiality of yours, 
which unlike *********** 
has followed me in my return to the shade of life, 
with assiduous benpvoltnee. Often did I regret in 
the fleeting hours of my late will-o-wisp appear- 
ance, that " here I had no continuing city ;" and, 
but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time, that a momentary acquain- 
tance with wealth and splendor put me so much 
out of the conceit with the sworn companions of 
my road threugh life, insignificance and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the un- 
equal distribution of the good things of this life, 
that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see 
around me) than the importance the opulent be- 
stow on their trifling family affiiirs, compared with 
the very same things on the contracted scale of a 
cottage. La|t.'*ffterrto6n I"%iad the honour to spend 
an hour oi'^o at a good woman's fire-side, where 
the planks, that composed the floor, were decorat- 



This is the second day, my honoured friend, that 
I have been on jny farm : a solitary inmate of an 
old, smoky spence ; far from every object I love, 
or by whom I ajn beloved ; nor any acquaintance 
older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old 
mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares, and novel 
plans, hourly insult my awkward igiiorance, and 
bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere 
native to my soul, in the hour of care, consequent- 
ly the dreary objects seem larger than the life. 
Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on 
the gloomy side by a series of misfoitunes and dis- 
appointments, at that period of my existence, when 
the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for tlie voy- 
age of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer.? 
Or what need he regard his si?igle woes ?" &c. 

Your surmise, madam, is just; I am indeed a 
husband. 



* Servants, in Scotland, are hired from term to 
term, ». e, from Whitsunday to Martinmas, &c. 

E. 



172 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



I found a once much-loved, and still much-loved 
female, literally and truly cast cut to the mercy of 
the naked tlements, but as I enabled her to pur- 
chase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a 
fellow-cx-eature's happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of 
disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with 
all its powers to love me ; vigorous healtli and 
sprightly cheex-fuluess, set off to the best advan- 
tage, by a more than commonly handsome figure ; 
these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, 
though she should never have read a page, but the 
Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have 
danced in a blighter assembly than a penny-pay 
wedding. 



No. LI. 

To Mr. P. HILL. 

My dear Hill, 

I shall say nothing at all to your mad present— 
you have so long and often bten of important ser- 
vice to me, and I suppose you mean to go on con- 
ferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift 
up my face before you. In the mean time, as sir 
Roger de Coverley, because it hap^jened to be a 
(•o\A day in wliich he made his will, ordered his 
servants great coats for mourning, so, because I 
have been this week plagued with an indigLstion, 
I have sent you, by the carrier, a fine old ewe-milk 
cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and 
all. It besets a man in every one of hi-; senses. I 
lose my appetite at the sight of successful knave- 
ry, and sicken, to loathing, at the noise and non- 
sense of self-important folly. When the hollow- 
hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling 
spoils my dinner ; the proud man's ^\^ne so oflfends 
mj palate, that it choaks me in the gullet • and 
the pulvilis''d, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so dis- 
gustful in my nostril, that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable sen- 
sations let me prescribe for you patience, and a 
bit of my clieese. I know that you are no niggard 
of your good things among your friends, and some 
of them are in much need of a slice. There in my 
eye is our friend Smellie ; a man positively of the 
first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well 
as one of the best hearts and keenest wits, that I 
have ever met m ith ; when you see him, as, alas ! 
he too is smarting at the pijich of distressful cir- 
cumstances, aggravated by the sneer of contume- 
lious greatness — a bit of luj' cheese alone will not 
cure him, btit if you add a tankard of brown stout, 
and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will 
see his sorrows vanish like the morning mist be- 
fore the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only bro- 
ther, tliat I have on eartli, and one of the wortlii- 
est fellows tliat ever any man called by the najne 
of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help 
to i-id him of some of his superabundant modesty, 
you would do well to give it him. 



Da^nd* with his Courant comes, tbo, across mf 
recollection, and I beg you will help him largely 
fi-om tlie said ewe-milk cheese, to tnable him to 

digest those bedaubing paragraphs with which 

lie is eternally larding the lean characters of cer- 
tain great men in a certain great town. I grant 
you the periods are very well turtied ; so, a fresh 
e^^ is very good thiRg, but when thrown at a man 
in a piilory, it does not at all improve his figure, 
not to mention tlie irreparable loss of the c^^. 

My factitious friend. D r, I would wish also 

to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, for that 
he laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine 
at the last field-day of the Crochallan corpsf. 

Among our common friends, I must not forget 
one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. The 
brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world, un- 
worthy of having such a f(;llow as he is, in it, I 
know sticks in his ston^Hl, and if you can he^ 
him to any thing that will make him a little easier 
on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a con- 
tented, hapijy man, that I knoAv not what can aiw 
no) him, except perhaps he may not have got the 
better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which a cer- 
tain poet gave him one night at supper, the last, 
time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of laAV, ' 
I shall have nothii.g to do with them professedly 
—the facultj are beyond my prescription. As to 
their clients, that is another thing ; God knows 
they have much to digest ! 

The clergy, I pass by ; their profi^^ity of eru- 
dition, and their liberality of sentiaB; their to- 
tal want of pride, and their detestation of hypo- 
crisy, are so proverbially notorious, as to place them 
far, far above either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom 
I have the honour to call friend, the laird of Craig- 
darroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the 
king's-aruis inn here, to have, at the next county 
meeting, a large e\\ e-milk cheese on the table, for 
the benefit of the Dumfries-shire whigs, to enable 
them to digest the duke of Queensbury's late po- 
litical conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would 
not digest double postage. 



No. LII. 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d August., 1788. 
Honoured madam. 

Your kind letter Avelcomed me, yesterniglit, to 
Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with you 
at the quantum of your luckpeuntj ; but, vexed 
and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very 
lieartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed 
napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you 
my direction there, but I have scarce an opportu- 

* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
t A club of choice spirits. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



173 



nity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. 
I ain six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in 
It myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in 
the neighbourhood. Besides, I am now very busy 
on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; as at pre- 
sent I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, 
for 1 have scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last, that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart knoweth 
its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not 
therewith." The repository of these " sorrows of 
the heart," is a kind of sanctum sanctorum : and 
'tis only a chosen friend, and that too at particu- 
lar, sacred times, who dares enter into them. 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of 
the author. Instead of entering on this subject 
farther, I shall transcribe you a favf lines I wrote 
in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman in my 
Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the 
only favours the muses have conferred on me in 
that country. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet w.ed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
'Grave these maxims oji thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost: 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour ; 
Fear not clouds will ever lour. 
Happiness is but a name. 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor-gleam ; 
Fame, an idle restless dream ; 
Peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring ; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing. 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own ; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard wherever thou canst guard; 
But, thy utmost duly done, 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past, give thou to air. 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart 
Him whose wondrous work thou art; 
Keep his goodness still in view. 
Thy trust and thy example too. 
Stranger, go ! heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadesman of Nith-side. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the fol- 
lowing were the production of yesterday as I jog- 
ged through the wild hills of New Cunniock. I 
intend inseiting them, or something like them, in 
an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman 
on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, Mr. 
Graliam of Fintry ; one of the worthiest and most 



accomplished gentlemen, not only of this country, 
but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following 
arc just the first crude thoughts, '• unliouserd, uu- 
annointed, unanneard." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world w ere blest, did bliss on them depend ; 
Ah, that •' the friendl) e'er should want a friend i" 
I'he little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdoni's hard- wrung boon< 
Lrt prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and w ho give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 
good ? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the socLil eye ; 

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 

But come ********** * 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what 
you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never re- 
ceived it. Poor fellow .' you vex me much by tell- 
ing me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayr- 
shire ten days from this date. I have just room 
for an old Roman farewell ! 



No. LIIL 
To THE SAME. 

Mauchllne, 10th August, 178«. 

My much honoured friend. 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found 
it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, wait- 
ing to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with 
the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, madam, I do not sit down to 
answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every 
sentiment, like the faithful commons of Great Bri- 
tain in parliament assembled, answering a speech 
from the best of kings ! I express myself in the 
fulness of my heart, and may jierhaps be guilty of 
neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not 
from your very odd reason that I do not read your 
letters. All your epistles for several months have 
cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of grati- 
tude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself " as women wish to 
be who love their lords ;" as I loved her nearly to 
distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. 
Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade 
me her company and their house, Init, on my ru- 
moured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put 
me in jail, until I should find security in my 
ab»ut-to-be paternal relation. You know my luck> 



174 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



reverse of fortune. Oji my eclatant return to 
Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my 
girl. The usual consequences began to betray 
htr ; and as I was at thut time laid up a cripple 
in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out 
of doors, and I wrote to a friend to sh( Iter her, 
until my return, when our marriage was declared. 
Her happiness or misery were in my haiKls, and 
who could trifle with such a deposit ? 



I can easily fa7icy a more agreeable companion 
for my journey of life, but, upon my honour, I 
have never seen the individual instance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got 
a female partner, for life, who could have entered 
into my favourite studies, relished my favourite 
authors, &c. without probably entailing on me, at 
the same time, expensive living, fantastic cajirice, 
perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessL-d, 
boarding-school acquirements, which (/jardo7inez- 
mol, niadanie) are sometimes to be found among 
females of the upper ranks, but almost universally 
pervade the misses of the would-be-gentry, 



1 like your way in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thouglits that are tlie spontaneous result 
of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strejigih, and al- 
ways an originality, that would in vain be looked 
for in fancied circumstances and studied para- 
graphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping 
a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when 
the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I 
3tnust tell 30U, my reason for writing to you on 
paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing to 
30U at large. A page of post is on such a dis-so- 
fcial, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; 
and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous 
reverie mannei-, are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. 



these reflections, till my humour should ferment 
into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the 
very thread of life. 

To counterwork tl»ese baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my 
soul 1 always find that the most sovereign balnt 
for juy wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for the 

first time. My r. cepiion was quite to my mind : 
from the lady of the house quite flatteri.ig. She 
sometimes hits on a couplet or two. imfjrom^tu. 
She repeated one or two to the admiration of all 
present. My suifrage, as a professional man, was 
expected : I for once went agonizing over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored 
household gods, independence of spirit, and inte- 
grity of soul ! In the course of conversation, 
Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of Scot- 
tish songs with the music, was talked of. We g^t 
a song on the harpsichord beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing*." 

The air was much admired : the lady of the house 
asked me whose were the words. " Mine, madam 
— they are indeed my very best verses ;" she took 
not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish 
proverb sa} s well, '• king's caff is better than ither 
folks' corn," I was going to make a New Testa- 
ment quotation about " casting pearls," but that 
would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a 
woman of sense and taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side of 
the question, man is by no means a happy crea- 
ture. I do not speak of the selected few. favoured 
by partial heaven ; whose souls are tuned to glad- 
ness amid riches and honours and prudence and 
wisdom. I si>eak of the neglected many, whose 
nerves, whose sinews, whose days, are sold to the 
minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transciibe for you a stanza of an old Scottish bal- 
lad, called, The life and age of man ; beginning 
thus, 



To THE SAME. 

Ellisland, Ufh August, 1788. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only ge- 
nius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

" Why droops ray heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange coun- 
try—gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futu- 
rity—consciousness of my own inability for the 
struggle of the world— my broadened mark to mis- 
fortune in a wife and children ;— I could indulge 



" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,. 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- 
ther lived a while in her girlish years ; the good 
old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time, his highest enjoyment 
was to sit down and cry, while my mother would 
sing tlie simple old song of The life and age of 
man. 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melancho- 
ly truths, that make religion so precious to the 
poor, miserable children of men. — If it is a mere 
phantom, existing only in the heated imagination 
of enthusiasm, 

* See the songs that have appeared in the Mu- 
sical Museum. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



ITS 



" What truth on earth so precious as the lie!" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little 
sceptical, but the necessities of my lieart always 
give the cold philosophisingfs the lie. WJio looks 
for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced 
to her God ; the correspondence fixed with heaven ; 
the pious supplication and devout thanksgivinjj, 
constajit as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who 
thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, 
in the glare of public life ? No : to find them iu 
their precious importance and divine efficacy, we 
must search among the obscure recesses of disap- 
pointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear madam, you are now more than 
pleased with the length of my letters. I return to 
Ayrshii'e, mi>idle of next week : and it quickens 
my i>ace to think that there will be a letter from 
you waiting me there. I must be liere again very 
soon for my harvest. 



No. LV. 

To R. GRAHAM, of FINTRY, Esq. 

Sir, 

When I had the honour of being introduced to 
you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of 
asking a favour of you. When Leai-, in Shake- 
speare, asks old Kent why he wished to be in his 
service, he answers, " Because you have tliat in 
your face which I could like to call master," For 
some such reason, sir, do 1 now solicit your pa- 
tronage. You know, I dare say, of an application 
I lately made to your board to be admitted an of- 
ficer of excise. I have, according to form, been 
examined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his 
certificate, with a request for an order for iiistruc- 
tioQS. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I 
shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Pro- 
priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and atten- 
tion as an officer, I dare engage for; but with any 
thing like business, except manual labour, I am 
totally unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late appear- 
ance on the stage of life, in the character of a 
country farmer ; but after discharging some filial 
and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for 
existence in that miserable manner, which I have 
lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws 
of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and of- 
ten best friend, rescued him. 

I know, sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your pa- 
tronage to forwai-d me in this affair, till I be ap- 
pointed to a division, where, by the helj) of rigid 
economy, I will try to support that independevice 
80 dear to my soul, but which has been too often 
sn distant from my situation. 



When nattire her great masteri)iece design \1, 
And fram'd her last, be'ct work, the human mind. 



Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 

She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful nuuiy forth; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth; 
I'hence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caf/ut 7)iorfutiin of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires; 
TJie martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish pliiiosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- 
signs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souJs. 

The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature well pleas'd pronoune'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one ctirious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatims mattev; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may liave her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
Slie forms the thing, and christens it— a jioet : 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow ; 
A being fcrm'd t'amuse his grav< r friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd— and there the homage ends ; 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk ; 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitjing the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham, 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main .' 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stufl^. 
That never gives— tho' humbly takes enough ? 
Thf little fate allows, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend!'* 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
Who make i)oor ■will do wait upon I should— 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good 1 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
Rut come ye, who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute disiinguish'd to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ; 
Come tfiiiv who giv'si with all a courtier's grace; 



176 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul, half blushing, lialf afraid, 
Backward, abasli'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine- 
Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 
But groveling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of stardng want, 
They dun benevolence witli shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that last 

shift, 
I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift ; 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish"d-for height. 
Where man and nati 
My muse may imp her 

flight*. 



ly boon is in thy gift : 
upon the wish"d-for height, "^ 
ture fairt-r in her sight, f 

her wing for some subliiner f 



No. LVI. 

To Mr. PETER HILL. 

Mattchline, Ut October, 1788. 
I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has been 
tlie " Address to Lochlomond," you were so oblig- 
ing as to send to me. AV'ere I impannelled one of 
the author's jury, to determine his criminality re- 
specting the sin of poesy, my verdict should be 
" guilty ! A poet of nature's making !" It is an ex- 
cellent method for improvement, and what I be- 
lieve every poet does, to place some favourite clas- 
sic author in his own walks of study and composi- 
tion, before him, as a model. Though your author 
had not mentioned the name, I could have, at half 
a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will 
my brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to liint, 
that his imitation of that immortal bard is, in two 
or three places, rather more servile than such a 
g;enius as his required ?— e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

Address, 



* This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of 
Fintry. It is not equal to the second, but it con- 
tains too much of the characteristic vigour of its 
aufJior to be suppressed. A little more knowledge 
of natural history, or of chemistry, v.as wanted, to 
enable him to execute the original conception cor- 
rectly, i:. 



To sooth the throbbing passions into peac6. 

Thomsoiii 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, harmony, 
and elegance of versification, fully equal to the 
Seasons. Like Thomson too he has looked into na- 
ture for himself : you meet with no copied descrip- 
tion. One particular criticism I made at first read- 
ing ; in no one instance has he said too much. He 
never flags in his progress, but, like a true poet of 
nature's making, kindles in his course. His begin- 
ning is simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altogether 
ilke 

" Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly 
great. Perhaps I am wrong: this may be but a 
prose-criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page 
6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized by every- 
day language, for so sublime a poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a 
comparison w\ih other lakes, is at once harmonious 
and poetic. Every reader's ideas must sweep the 

" Windbig margin of a hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue— 
the imprisoned billows beating in vain— the wood- 
ed isles— the digression on the yew-tree—" Ben-lo- 
mond's lofty cloud-envelop'd head," &c. are beau- 
tiful. A thunder-stormisasubject, which has been 
often tried, yet our poet in his grand picture has 
interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, en- 
tirely original. 

" the gloom 
Deep seam'd with fi'equent streaks of moving fire."' 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how dark 
between," is noble highland landscape .' The " rain 
jjloughing the red mould," too, is beautifully fan- 
cied. Ben-lomond's " lofty, pathless top," is a good 
expression ; and tlie surrounding view from it, is 
truly great : the 

" Silver mist, 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here he has contrived to en- 
liven his poem with a little of that passion which 
bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern muses alto- 
gether. I know not how far this episode is a 
beauty upon the whole, but the swain's wish to 
carry " some faint idea of the vision bright," to 
entertain her " partial listening ear," is a pretty 
thought. But in my opinion the most beautiful 
passages in the whole poem, are the fowls crowd- 
ing, in wintry frosts, to Loch-lomond's " hospitable 
flood ;" their wheeling round, their lighting, mix- 
ing, diving, &c. ; and the glorious description of 
1'lie sportsman. This last is equal to any thing iu 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



177 



the Seasons. The idea of " the floating' tribes dis- 
tant si.'cn, far g•list^riIlg to the moon," provoking 
his eye as he is oblig'.d to leave them, is a noble 
ray of pottic genius. " The howling winds,"' the 
*' hideous roar" of " the white cascades," ai-e all 
in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth with 
the heedless warmth of an entliusiast, I am per- 
haps tiring you with nonsense. I must however 
mention, that the last verse of tlie sixteenth page 
is one of tlie most elegant compJiments I have ever 
seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful para- 
graph, beginning, " The gleaming lake ;" &c. I 
dare not go into the particular beauties of the two 
last paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and 
truly OssicUiic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
flcrawl. 1 had no idea of it when I began.— I should 
like to know who the author is ; but, whoever he 
be, please present him with my grateful thanks 
for the entertainment he has afforded me*. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for 
him, two books, Letters on the Religion essential to 
man, a book you sent me before ; and, The fVorld 
unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest cheat. 
Send me them by the first opportuiiity. The Bible 
3'ou sent me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had 
Jbeen in two volumes. 



No. LVII. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAIN& 

Madam, Mauchline, 13th November, 1788. 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dun- 
Jop yesterday. Men are said to flatter women be- 
cause they are weak ; if it is so, poets must he 
weaker still ; for Missc s R. and K. and Miss G. M'K. 
with their flattering attentions, and artful c«inpli- 
Bients, absolutely turned my head. I owTi they did 
not lard me over as many a poet does bis patron 
**** ###*** but they so 
intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and de- 
licate iuuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- 
ship must give me in that circle, I had certainly 
looked upon myself as a person of no small conse- 
quence. I dare not say one word how much I was 
charmed with the major's friendly welcome, ele- 
gant manner^ and acute remark, lest I should be 
thoug-ht to balance my orientalisms of applause 
ever against the finest quey+ in Ayrshire, which 
he made me a present of to help and adorn my 
farm-stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter- 
mined annually, as that day returns, to decorate 

♦ The poem, entitled An address to Loch-lO' 
mond, is said to be written by a gentleman, now 
one of the masters of the High-school at Edin- 
burgh, and the same who translated the beautiful 
story of tlie Paria, as published in the Bee of Dr. 
Anderson. 

t Heifer^ 



her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I 
will take the first conveniency to dedicate a day, 
or perhaps two, to you and friendship, under the 
guarantee of the major's hospitality. There will 
soon be three score and ten milts of permaneu', 
distance between us ; and now that your frieu.d- 
ship and frieiully correspondence is entwisted '"..ith 
the heart-strings of my t njoyment of life, i must 
indulge myself in a happy day of " The feast of 
reason and the flow of soul." 



No. LVIII. 

To •**•*, 

Sir, Nov. 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the oprjrobrious epithets with 
which some of our philosophers and gloo.uy secta- 
ries have branded our uoture— the principle of uni- 
versal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they 
have given us ; stil*., the detestation in which in- 
humanity to the idistressed, or insolence to the fal- 
len, art held by all mankind, shews that they are 
not natives of the human heart. Even the unhap- 
py partner of our kind, who is undone, the bitter 
consequence of his follies or his crimes, who but 
syiupatliizes with the miseries of this ruined prof- 
ligate brother ? we forget the injuries, and feel for 
the man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to ujy parish (^urch, 
most cordially to join in grateful aekiiovvledgments 
to the Author of all Good, for the consequent bles- 
sings of the glorious revolution. To that auspi- 
cious event we owe no less than our liberties civil 
and religious ; to it we are likewise indebted for 
the present royal family, the ruling features of 
whose administration have ever been, mildness to 
the subject, and tenderness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in rtvolutioii principles, the 
principles of reason and common sense, it could 
not be any silly political prejudice which made my 
heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner, in which 
the reverend genti man mentioned the house of 
Stewart, and which, I am afraid, was too much the 
language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently 
in our deliverance from past evUs, without cruelly 
raking up the ashes of those, whose misfortune it 
was, perhaps, as much as their crime, to be the au- 
thors of those evils ; and we may bless Cod for all hi* 
goodness to us as a nation, without, at the same time, 
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most of 
us would have done, had we been in their situa- 
tion. 

" The Moody and tyrannical house of Stewart" 
may be said with propriety and justice, when com- 
pared with the present royal family, and tin; sen- 
timents of our days; but is there no allowiince to 
be made for the manners of the Imes ? We.ri the 
royal contemporaries of the Stewarts more atten- 
tive to their subjects' rights ? Might no^ the epi- 
Z 



in 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



thets of " bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least 
equal justice, applied to the house of Tudor, of 
York, or any other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, sir, seems to be 
this— At that period, the science of government, 
the knowledge of the true i*elation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other 
knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark 
^ges of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives 
■which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and 
■whiciLi they saw their contemporaries enjoying ; but 
these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness 
of a nation, and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between pi'ince and people, the 
consequence of that light of science, which had 
lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of France, 
for example, was victorious over the struggling li- 
berties of his people : with us, luckily the monarch 
failed, and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a sa- 
crifice to our right* and happiness. Whether it 
was owing to the wisdom of Ir ading individuals, 
or to the justling of pai-ties, I cannot pretend to 
determine ; but likewise happily for us, the kingly 
power Was shifted into another branch of the fa- 
anil) , who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
call of a free people, could claim nothing incon- 
sistent with the covenanted texTaas which placed 
them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and laugh- 
ed at for the folly and impracticability of their 
attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, I bless 
Cod ; but cannot join in the ridicule against tiiem. 
Who does not know that the abilities or defects of 
leaders and commanders are often hidden until 
put to the touchstone of exigency ; and that tl»ere 
is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particiv- 
lar accidents and coijunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, 
just as they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, incon- 
sistent being : who would believe, sir, that, in this 
our Augustan age of liberality and refinement, 
while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of ou|: 
rights and libeities, and animated with such indig- 
nation against the very memory of those who would 
have subverted them— that a certaiii people, under 
our national protection, should complain, not 
against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, 
but against our whole legislative body, for similar 
oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as 
our forefathers did of the house of- Stewart ! 1 
Tvill not, I cannot enter intc» the merits of the 
cause, but I dare say the American congress, in 
1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlighten- 
ed as the English convention was in 1688 ; and 
that their posterity will celebrate the centenary 
of their deliverance from us, as duly and sincei-ely 
as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the 
wrong-headed house of Stewart. 

To conclude, sir ; let every man who has a tear 
for the many miseries incident to humanity, feel 
for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and un- 
fortunate beyond historic precedent ; and let every 
JBriton (and pai'ticularly every Scotsman), who ever 
looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a 



parent, cast a veil over the fittal mistakes of the 
kings of his forefathers*. 



No. LIX. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, nth December, 1788, 

My dear honoured friend, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. Almost " blind and whol- 
ly deaf," are melancholy news of human nature ; 
but when told of a much-loved and honoured 
friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness 
on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie, 
which has gradually and strongly entwisted itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom ; and I 
tremble at the omens of your late and present ail' 
ing habit and shattered health. You miscalculate 
matters widely, when you forbid my; waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My 
small scale of farming is exceedingly move simple 
and easy than what you have lately seen at More^ 
ham Mains. But be that as it may, the heart of 
the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the two 
grand considerations for which I live : if miry 
ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best 
part of the functions of my soul immortal, I had 
better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then 
I should not have been plagued with any ideas 
superior to breaking of clods, and picking up 
grubs : not to mention barn-doov cocks and mal- 
liirds, creatures with which I could almost ex- 
change lives at any time.— If you continue so 
deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great i)leasure 
to either of us ; but if I hear you have got so 
well again as to be able to relish conversation, 
look you to it, madam, for I will make my threat- 
enings good. I am to be at the new-year-day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, 
friend ! 1 will come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, with 
your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly inte- 
resting. Out upon the Avays of the world !— They 
spoil these " social offsprings of the heart." Two 
veterans of the " men of the world" would have 
met with little more heart-workings than two old 
hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the 
old Scotch phrase, " Auld lang syne," exceedingly 
expressive ? There is an old song and tune which 
has often thrilled through my soul. You know I 
am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give 
you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose 
Mr. Ker will save you the postagef. 

* This letter was sent to the publisher of some 
newspaper, probably the publisher of the Ediii' 
hurgh Evening Courant. E. 

t Here follows the song of Auld lang sijne, as 
printed^. 114. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



m 



Light be the turf on the breast of tlie Heaven- 
inspired i)oet wl>o composed this glorious frag- 
ment ! There is more of the fire of native genius 
in it, than in half a dozen of modern English 
£acelianalians. Now I am on my houby-horse, I 
cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which 
please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o'wine, 

An fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A ser^ ice to my bonny lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my faonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready 5 
The shouts o' war ai-e heai'd afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody : 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



No. LX. 

To Miss DAVIES, 

(A young lady tvho had heard he had been making 
a ballad on her, inclosing that ballad.) 

Madam, December, 1788. 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. 
Riddel, has informed you that I have made you 
the subject of some verses. There is something 
so pi'ovoking in the idea of being the burden of a 
ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though 
such patterns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know what that bal- 
lad was : so my worthy friend has done me a mis- 
chief, which I dare say he never intended ; and 
reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leav- 
ing your curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting 
you with foolish verses, the unfinished production 
of a random moment, and never meant to have 
met your ear. I have heard or i-ead somewhere of a 
gentleman, who had some genius, much eccentri- 
city, and very considerable dexterity with his pen- 
cil. In the accidental group of life into which one 
is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
chai'acter in a more than oi'dinary degree conge- 
nial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the 
face, merely, he said, as a nota bene to point out 
the agreeable recollection to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse to 
me ; and the verses I do myself the honour to send 
you, are a memento exactly of the same kiud that 
he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of 
my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, but I 
am so often tired, disgusted, and liurt with the in- 
sipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that 
when I meet with a person " after my own heart," 
I positively feel what au orthodox protestaut would 



call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy 
like inspiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming 
on the impulse, than an ^Eolian harp can refuse 
its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object which 
hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; but where 
my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose 
personal channs, wit, and sentiment, are equally 
striking and unaftected, by heavens ! though I had 
lived three score years a married man, and three 
score years before I was a married man, my ima- 
gination would hallow the very idea : and I am 
truly sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done 
such poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXI. 
From Mr. G. BURNS. 

Dear brother, Mossgiel, 1st Jan, 1789. 

I have just finished my new-year's day break- 
fast in the usual form, which naturally makes me 
call to mind the days of former years, and the so- 
ciety in which we used to begin them ; and when 
I look at our family vicissitudes. " thro' the dark 
postern of time long elapsed," I cannot help re- 
marking to you, my dear brother, how good thfe 
God of Seasons is to us ; atid that, however some 
clouds may seem to lour over the portion of time 
before us, we have great reason to hope that all 
will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the se- 
cond, join me in the compliments of the season to 
you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you will remember' 
us in tlie same manner to William, the first time 
you see him. 

I am, deax brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS, 



No. LXIL 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, neio-year-day morning, 1789, 
This, dear madam, is a morning of wishes, and 
would to God, that I came under the apostle 
James' description ! — the prayer of a righteous 
man availeth much. In that case, madam, yoa 
should welcome in a year full of blessings : every 
thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and 
self-enjoym«nt, should be removed, and every plea- 
sure that frail humanity can taste, should be yours, 
I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I ap- 
prove of set times and seasons of more than ordi. 
nary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that ha- 
bitual routine of life and thought, which is so apt 
to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or 
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state 
very little superior to mere machinerj'. 

This day; the first S(niday of May; a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some tinie about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of mind, bars 
been wth me a kind of holiday. 



180 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza ;" a piece 
tiiat struck my young fancy before I was capable 
of fixing an idea to a vvoi'd of three syllables r 
" Of« the 5th day of the moon, which, according 
to the custom of my fore-fathers, I always keep 
holy, after having washed myself, and offered up 
my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of 
Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in me- 
ditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot ac- 
count for those se^ ming caprices in them, that one 
should be particularly pitased with this thing, or 
struck with that, which, on minds of a dirfei-ent 
cast, makes no extraordiiiary impreswon. I have 
some favourite flowers in spring, among which are 
the mountain-daisy, the hare- .ell, the fox-glove, 
tbt wild brier-rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hiiv thorn, that I view and hang over with 
particular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary 
whistle of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the 
wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers, 
in an autuiuiial morning, without feeling an ele- 
vation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 
poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can thi& 
be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the Eoliaii harp, passive, takes the impression 
of the- passing accident ? Or do these workings ar- 
gue something within us above the trodden clod ? 
I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful 
and important realities — a God that made all 
thir.gs— i«Jin's immaterial and immortal nature— 
and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the 
grave. 



bias of the soul ;"— but I as firmly believe, that 
excellence in the profession is the fruit of indus- 
try, laboiu*, attention, and pains. At least I am 
resolved to -%ry my doctrine by the test of experi- 
ence. Another appearance from the press I put 
ofTto a very distant day, a day that may never ar- 
rive—but poesy I am determined to prosecute with 
all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, 
of the profession, tte talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until tri- 
al it is impossible to know) whether she has quali- 
fied me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, 
b)- the time one has finished a piece, it has been 
so often viewed and reA'iewed before the mental 
eye, that one loses, in a good measure, the pow- 
ers of critical discrimination. Here the best crj- 
terion I know is a frieud — not only of abilities to 
judge, but with good-nature enough, like a pru- 
dent teacher with a young learner, to praise perhaps 
a little more than is exactly just, lest the thin-skin- 
ned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poe- 
tic diseases— heart-breaking despondency of him- 
self. Dare I, sir, already immensely indebted to your 
goodness, ask the additional obligation of your be- 
ing that friend to me ? I inclose you an essay of 
mine in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I 
laean the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Ro- 
bert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un- 
common worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- 
ligations. The story of the poem, like most of 
my poems, is connected with my own story, and 
to give you the one, I must give you something oC 
the other. I cannot boast of 



No. LXIII» 
To Dr. MOORE. 



I believe I shall, in whole, 1. 100 copy-right in- 
cluded, clear about L 400, some little odds ; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle- 
man has yet to settle with me. I give you this in- 
formation, because you did me the honour to inter- 
est yourself much in ray welfare. 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, Ath January, 1789. 
Sir, 

As often as 1 think of writing to you, which 
has been three or four times every week these six 
moi.ths, it gives me somethiiig so like the idea of 
an ordi-'iary sized statue offering at a conversation 
with the Rhodiau colossus, that my mind misgives 
me, and the aifair always miscarries somewhei-e 
between purpose and resolve. I have, at last, got 
some business with you, and business letters are 
written by the style-book. I say my business is 
with you, sir, for you never had any with rae, ex- 
cept the busiiiese that benevolence has in the man- 
sion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were 
fornif rly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I 
kiiow that a very great deal of my late eclat was 
owing to the singularity of my situation, and the 
honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said 
in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon 
myself as having some pretensions from nature to 
the poetic character. 1 have not a doubt but the 
kr.aei., the aptitude, to leai'n the muses' trade, is 
3- gift bestowed by Him, ** who form* the secret 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean," snA. taken a farm : with the 
first step I have every day moi'e and more reason 
to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather the re- 
verse. I have a younger brother, who support* 
my aged mother ; another still younger brother^ 
and three sisters in a farm. On my last return 
from Edinburgh, it cost me about /. 180, to, save 
them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much— 
I only interposed between my brothv r and his im- 
pending fate by the loan of so much. I give my- 
self no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on 
my part : I was conscious that the wrong scale of 
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
thouglit that throwing a little filial piety, and fra- 
ternal affection, into the scale in my favour, might 
help to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. 
There is still one thing would make my circum- 
stances quite easy : I have an excise oflicer's com- 
mission, and I live in the midst of a country divi- 
sion. My request to Mr. Grahau», wlio is one of 
the commissioners of excise, was, if in his power, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



I8t 



to procure me that division. If I were very san- 
guine, I might hope that some of my great pa- 
trons might procure me a treasury warrant for 
supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 



Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poe- 
try, delightful maid," I would consecrate my fu- 
ture days. 



No. LXIV. 



To PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 



Sir, 



ElUsland, near Dumfries, 20th Jan. 1789. 



The inclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh, 
a few days after I had the happiness of meeting 
you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the conti- 
nent. I have now added a few more of my pro- 
ductions, those for which I am indebted to the 
Nithsdale muses. The piece inscribed to R. G. 
Esq. is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of 
Fintry, accompan>ing a request for his assistance 
in a matter, to me, of very great moment. To 
that gentleman I am already doubly indebted : for 
deeds of kindness of serious import to my dearest 
interests, done in a manner grateful to the deli- 
cate f-elings of sensibility. This poem is a species 
of composition new to me, but I do not intend it 
shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see 
by the " Poet's progress." These fragments, if 
my design succeed, are but a small part of the in- 
tended whole. I propose it shall be the work of 
my utmost exertions ripened by years ; of course 
I do not wish it much known. The fragment be- 
ginning " A little, upright, pert, tart, &c." I have 
not shewn to man liWng, till I now send it you. 
It forms the postulata. the axioms, the definition 
of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
placed in a variety of lights. This particular part, 
1 send you merely as a sample of ray hand at por- 
trait sketching; but lest idle conjecture should 
pretend to pouit out the original, please let it be 
for your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to 
a gentleman who has treated me Avith such mark- 
ed benevolence and peculiar kindness ; who has 
entered into my interests with so much zeal, and 
On whose critical decisions I can so fully depend ? 
A poet as I am by trade, these decisions to me are 
of the last consequoice. My late transient ac- 
quaintance among some of the mere rank and file 
of greatness, I resign with ease ; but to tli ■ dis- 
tinguished champions of genius and learning, I 
shall be ever ambitious of being known. The 
native genius and accurate discernment in Mr. 
Stewart's critical strictures; tlie justness (iron 
justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a 
poor poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and 
the delicacy of professor Dalziel's taste, I shall 
ever revere. I shall be iu Edinburgh some time 
next month. 

I have the honour to be, sir, 

Your highly obliged, and very humble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XLV. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

EUliland, near Dumfries, 3d February, 178?). 

Venerable father, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my welfare, 
it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I am here 
at last, stationary in the serious business of life, 
and have now not only the retired leisure, but the 
hearty inclination, to attend to those great and 
important questions— what I am ? where I am ? 
and for what I am destined > 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was habi- 
tually blameable, and there I have secured myself 
in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature's 
God. I was sensible that, to so helpless a creatui-e 
as a poor poet, a wife and family were incumbran- 
ces, wliich a species of prudence would bid him 
sliun ; but when the alternative was, being at eter- 
nal warfare with myself, on account of habitual 
follies, to give them no worse name, which no ge- 
neral example, no licentious wit, no sophistical in- 
fidelity, would, to me, ever justify, I must have 
been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to 
have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tole- 
rably secure : I have good hopes of my fann, but, 
should they fail, I have an excise commission, 
which, on my simple petition, will, at any time, 
procure me bread. There is a certain stigma af- 
fixed to the character of an excise officer, but I do 
not intend to borrow honour from any profession ; 
and though the salary be comparatively small, it 
is great to any thing that the first twenty-five years 
of my life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much-ho- 
noured friend, that my characteristical trade is not 
forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an 
enthusiast to the muses. I am determined to stu- 
dy man and nature, and in that view incessantly ; 
and to try if the ripening and corrections of years 
can enable me to produce soinething worth pre- 
serving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been tu- 
ning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some large 
poetic plans that are floating in my imagination, 
or partly put in execution, I shall impart to you 
when I have the pleasure of meeti7ig with you ; 
which, if you are then in Ediiiburgh, I shall have 
about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy sir, with which you 
were pleased to honour me, you must still allow 
me to challenge ; for with whatever unconcern I 
give up my transient connexion with the merely 
great, I cannot lose the patronizing notice of the> 
learned and good, without the bitterest regret. 



132 



General correspondence. 



Ko. LXVI. 



From the REVEREND P. CARFRAE. 

Sir, 2d Jan II arij, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of Dun- 
lop, you have certainly heard of the author of the 
Verses which accompany this letter. He was a man 
higl)ly respectable for every accomplislinient and 
virtue which adorn^ the character of a man or a 
christian. To a gfreat de,^ree of literature, of taste, 
and poetic genius, was added an inviiicible modes- 
ty of temper, which prevented, in a groat degree, 
his figuring in life, and confined the perfect know- 
ledge of his character and talents to the small cii-- 
cle of his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life— beloved by all who en- 
joyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all, who 
have any regard for virtue or genius. There is a 
woe pronounced in scripture against the person, 
whom all men speak well of; if ever that woe fell 
upon the head of mortal man, it fell upon him. 
He has left behind him a considerable number of 
compositions, chiefly poetical ; sufficient, I ima- 
gine, to make a large octavo volume. In particu- 
lar, two complete and regular tragedies, a farce of 
three acts, and some smaller poems on different 
subjects. It falls to my share, who have lived in 
the most intimate and uninterrupted friendship 
■with him from my youth upwards, to transmit to 
you the verses he wrote on the publication of your 
incomparable poems. It is probable they were his 
last, as they were found in his scrutoii*e, folded up 
with the foi'm of a letter addressed to you, and, I 
imagine, were only prevented from being sent by 
himself, by that melancholy dispensation, which 
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will not 
pretend to criticise, when writing to a gentleman, 
whom I consider as entirely qualified to j udge of 
their merit. They are the only verses he seems 
to have attempted in the Scottish style ; and I he- 
sitate not to say, in general, that they will bring 
no dishonour on the Scottish muse ; and allow me 
to add, that, if it is your opinion they arc not un- 
worthy of the author, and will be no discredit to 
you, it is the inclination of Mr. Mylne's friends 
that they should be immediately published in some 
periodical work, to give the world a specimen of 
what may be expected from his performances in 
the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterwai'ds 
published for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, ac- 
knowledging the receipt of this, and to be allow- 
ed to subscribe myself, with great regard, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

Pr CARFRAE. 

No. LXVII. 

TO Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 

l"i-pm the capital. To a man, Mho has a Upm^j 



however humble or remote— if that home is lik^ 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort— the bustle 
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening 
disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of Uiis world, I hate you !" 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rat- 
tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should 
mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim 
— " What merits has he had, or what demerit have 
I had, in some state of pre-existence, that he is 
ushered into this state of being with the scepti'O 
of rule, and the key of riches, in his puny fist, and 
I am kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or 
the victim of pride ?" I have read solnewhere of 
a monarch, (in Spain I think it was) who was so 
out of humour with the Ptolemean system of as- 
tronomy, that he said, had he been of the Creator's 
council, he could have saved him a great deal of 
labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blas- 
phemous speech ; but often, as I have glided with 
with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes' 
street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improve- 
ment on the present human figure, that a man, 
in proportion to his own conceit of his consequence 
in the world, could have pushed out the longitude 
of his common size, as a snail pushes out his hoi'ns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling al- 
teration, not to mention the prodigious saving it 
would be in the tear and wear of the neck and 
limb-sinews of many of his majesty's liege subjects, 
in the way of tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, 
would evidently tui-n out a vast advantage, in en- 
abling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in mak- 
ing a bow, or making way to a great man, and that 
too within a second of the precise spherical angle 
of reverence, or an inch of the particular point of 
respectful distance, which the important creature 
itself requires ; as a measuring-glance at its tow- 
ering altitude, would determine the affair like in- 
stinct. 

You are right, madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylnt's poem, which he has addressed to me. The 
piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one great 
fault— it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success 
has encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned mon- 
sters to crawl into public notice, under the title 
of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish poe- 
try, borders on the burlesque. When I write to 
Mr. Curfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one 
of his deceased friend's English pieces. I am pro- 
digiously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a peusalof all Mylne's po- 
etic performances ; and would have offered hi<»- 
friends.my assistance in either selecting or correc- 
ting what would be proper for tlte jn-ess. What 
it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a lit- 
tle o])presses my present spirits, shall fill up a pa- 
ragraph in some future lettex*. In the mean time 
allow me to close this epistle with a few lines done 
by a friend of mine * * * » * 

I give you them, that, as you have seen the origi- 
nal, you may guess whether one or two alterations 
I have ventured to make in them, be any real im- 
provement. 

Like the fitir plant that from onr touch wiUidraws", 
Shrink mildly fearfuJ even from applause, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



183 



Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And all you are, my charming ****, seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approre*." 



No. LXVIII. 

TO THE REVEREND P. CARFRAE. 

Reverend sir, 1789. 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer 
pang of shame, than on looking at the date of your 
obliging letter, which accompanied Mr. Mylne's 
poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has 
done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the en- 
dearing, though melancholy circumstance, of its 
being the last production of his muse, deserved a 
better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy 
of the ]»oem to some periodical publication ; but, 
on second thoughts, I am afraid that, in the pre- 
sent case, it would be an iinproi)er step. My suc- 
cess, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has 
brought an inundatioii of nonsense under the name 
of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish 
poems, have so dunned, and daily do dun the pub- 
lic, that the very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s 
poems in a magazine, &c. be at all i)rudent, in 
my opinion, it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man of 
genius, are, I hope, as honourable as any profits 
whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most just- 
ly entitled to that honest harvest, which fate has 
denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. 
Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour 
of ranking myself) always keep in eye his res- 
pectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure that, before the world knows any thing 
about him, would risk his name and character be- 
ing classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; and 
the way in which I would proceed with Mr. Mylne's 
poems, is this :— I would publish, in two or three 
3'inglish and Scottish jiublic papers, any one of 
his English poems, which should, by private judges, 
be thought the most excellent, and mention it, at 
the same time, as one of the productions of a Lo- 
thian farmer, of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea to 
publish, soon, by subscription, for the sake of his 
jiumerous family :— not in pity to that family, but 

* These beautiful lines, we have reason to be- 
lieve, are the production of the lady to whom this 
i< tier is addressed. E. 



in justice to what his friends think the poetic me- 
rits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most ef- 
fectual manner, to those tender couiiexions, whose 
right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 



No. LXIX. 

To Dr. MOORE. 

Sir, EUisland, 23d March. 178». 

The gentleman Avho will deliver you this is a 
Mr. Neilson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbour- 
hood, and a very particular acquaintance of mine. 
As I have troubled him with this packet, I must 
turn him over to your goodness, to recompense 
him for it in a way in which he much needs your 
assistance, and where you can effectually sei-ve 
him .—Mr. Neilson is on his way for France, to 
wait on his grace of Queensberry, on some little 
business of a good deal of importance to him, and 
he wishes for your instrucliojvs respecting tlie 
most eligible mode of travelling, &c. for hin>, when 
he has crossed the channel. I should not have da- 
red to take this liberty with you, but that I am 
told, by those who have the honour of your perso- 
nal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotch- 
man is a letter of recommendation to you, and 
that to have it in your power to serve such a cha- 
racter, gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memo- 
ry of the late Mrs. »*****, of ♦»*****»* You, 
probably, knew her personally, an honour of which 
I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her 
neighbourhood, and among her servants and te- 
nants. I know that she was detested with the 
most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the parti- 
cular part of her conduct which roused my poetic 
wrath, she was much less blameable. In January 
last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at bailie 
Whighani's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in 
the place. The frost was keen, and the grim even- 
ing, and howling wind, were ushering in a night of 
snow and drift. My horse and 1 were both much . 
fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friend, the bailie, and I were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the 
funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. **»***^ 
and poor 1 am forced to brave all tlu horrors of 
the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my 
young favourite horse, whom I had just christened 
Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wil- 
dest moors and hills of Ayrshii-e, to New Cum- 
nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and 
prose sink under me, when I would describe what 
I felt. Suffice it to say, that m hen a good fire at 
New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen si- 
news, I sat down and wrote the inclosed ode*. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that, at last, 
he has been amicable and fair with me. 

* The ode inclosed will lie found among the 
Poenii. E. 



184 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. LXX. 

To Mr. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus 
(God forgive me for murdering language !), that I 
have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 



It 18 economy, sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, pru- 
dence ; so I beg you will sit down, and either com- 
pose or borrow a panegyric. If you are going to 
borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something ve- 
ry clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
■write to one of my most esteemed friends on this 
wretched paper, which was originally intended for 
the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take 
dirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-eeilar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand bles- 
sings—thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens .' — 
thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose, and 
comfortable surtouts !— thou old housewife, darn- 
ing thy decayed stockings with thy ancient sjjec- 
tacles on thy agtd nose !— lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through 
those thickets, hitherto inaccessiblf, and impervi- 
ous to my anxious, weary feet:— not those Parnas- 
sian craggs, bleak and bart-en, where the hungry 
worshippers of fame are, brtathless, clambering, 
hanging between heaven and hell ; but those glit- 
tering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, Wealtli, holds his immediate court 
of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure 
of plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce 
those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this 
world, and natives of paradise ! Thou withered 
sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into the re- 
fulgent, adored presence .'—The power, splendid 
and potent as he now is, was once the puling nurs- 
ling of thy faithful cai*e, and tender arms ! Call 
me thy sou, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, 
and adjure the god, by the scenes of his infant 
years. i>o longer to repulse me as a stranger, or an 
alien, but to favour me with his peculiar counte- 
nance and protection ! He daily bestows his great- 
est kindness on the undeserving and the worth- 
less—assure him, that I bring ample documents of 
meritorious demerits ! Pledge yourself for me 
that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any 
thing, be any thing— but the horse-leech of private 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery J 



and all my prose commissions, the cheapest is al- 
ways the best for me. There is a small debt of 
honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saugh- 
ton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. 
Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first 
time you see him, ten shillings worth of any thing 
you have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you, is 
already begun, under the direction of captain Rid- 
del. There is another in emulation of u going 
on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Mon- 
teith, of Closeburn, which will be on a greater 
scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his infant society 
a great many of his old books, else I had written 
you on that subject; but, one of these days, I 
shall trouble you with a conmmissiou for " i he 
Monkland Friendly Society" — -a copy of The 
Speaator, Mirror, and Lounger ; Man of Feelings 
Man of the JVorld, Guthrie's Geographical Gram- 
mar, with some religious pieces, will likely be our 
first ordW. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt 
post, to make amends for this sheet. At present, 
every guinea has a five guinea en-and with, 
My dear sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R.B. 



No. LXXI. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th April, 1789. 



I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but 
I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing and rea- 
ding these give half the pleasure to you, tliat com- 
municating them to you gives to me, I am satis- 
fied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the right 
honourable C. J. Fox ; but how long that fancy 
may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I 
have just rough-sketched as follows : 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction— 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an English 
dictionary— Johnson'i; I suppose, is best. In these 



But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts (uid acquirements seem mere lucky 
hits.; 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



IBS 



"Witb knowledge so vast, and with j lulgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so i)otent, and fixncies so bright, 
No man witli tlie half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorrj', jwor misbegot son of the muses. 
For usuig thy name oftei-s fifty excuses. 

Good L— d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his 

evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion, sir Pope hugely la- 
bours, 

That, like th' old Hebrew-walking switch, eats up 
its neighbours : 

Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you 
know hiiii ? 

Pull the siring, ruling passion the picture will 
shew him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteons a system, 

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 
him ; 

For, spite t»f his fine theoretic positions, 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more in 

the wind. 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imjjly you've the oihei-. 



On the 20th current I hope to have the honour 
of assuring you, in person, how sincei-ely I am. 



free ingress and egress to and from their bags 
and mails, as an encouragement and mark of dis- 
tinction to super-eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which 1 think will be something to your taste. 
One morning, lately, as I was out pretty early in 
the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the 
burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and 
presently a poor little wounded hare came crip- 
pling by me. You will guess my indignation at 
the inhuman fellow, who could shoot a hare at 
this season, when they all of them have young 
ones. Indeed there is somethii'g in that business 
of destroying for our sport individuals in the ani- 
mal creation tliat do not injure us materially, 
which I could never reconcile to my ideas of vir- 
tue. 



On seeing afelloiv -wound a hare with a shot, 
April, 1789. 

Inhuman man 1 curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart [ 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little tliat of life remains ; 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

Tlie cold earth with thy blood stained bosom warm. 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 

Ah .' helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
That life a mother only can bestow ? 

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sportiiig o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



No. LXXII. 



To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 



EUisland, 4th Mmj, 1789. 
My dear sir, 

Yoar duty free favour, of the 26th April, I re- 
ceived two days ago. I will not say I perused it 
with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of ce- 
remony ; I perused it, sir, with delicious siitisfac- 
tion — in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor 
your friend, but the legislature by express proviso 
in their postage laws should frank. A letter in- 
formed with the soul of friendship is sucli an ho- 
nour to human nature, that they sitpuld order it 



Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improvement 
to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. 

C ■ is a glorious production of the author of 

man. You, he, and the noble colonel of the C— — 
F— — are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops wliich warm my breast." 

I liave a good mind to make verses on you all, to 

the tune of " three gude fellows ayont the glen,''* 

A a 



186 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE* 



No. LXXIIl. 

The poem in the preceding letter, had also been 
sent by our bard to Dt, Gregorj, for his criti- 
cism. The following- is that gentleman's reply» 



From Dr. GREGORY. 

Dear sir, Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

I take the first leisure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy of 
verses enclosed in it. As there is real poetic mer- 
it, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and some 
happy expressions, in them, I think they well de- 
serve that you should revise them carefully, and 
polish them to the utmost. This I am sure you 
can do if you please, for you have great command 
both of expression and of rhymes ; and you may 
judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's 
poetry, that I gave you, how much correctness and 
high polish enliance the value of such composi- 
tions. As you desire it, I shall, with great freedom, 
give you my most rigorous criticisms on your 
verses. I wish you would give me another edition 
of them, much amended, and I will send it to Mrs. 
Hunter, who I am sure will have much pleasure 
in reading it. Pray give me likewise for myself, 
and her too, a copy (as much amended as you 
please) of the Water Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The IVoimded Hare is a pretty good subject ; 
but the measure or stanza you have chosen for it, 
is not a good one : it does not Jiow well; and the 
fhyme of the fourth line is almost lost by its dis- 
tance from the first ; and the two interposed, close 
rhymes. If I were j'ou, I would put it into a differ- 
ent stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first two lines, 
are too strong or coarse ; but they may pass. 
'• Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epithet, and 
not very intelligible. " Blood-stained," in stanza 
iii. line 4, has the same fault : bleeding bosom is 
infinitely better. You have accustomed yourself 
to such epithets, and have no notion how stifi" and 
quaint they appear to othei's, and how incongini- 
ous with poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Sup- 
pose Pope had written, " Why that blood-stained 
bosom gored," how would you have liked it ? Form 
is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, nor a plain, 
common word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; un- 
suitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent" in 
this scene is a nursery word : but both may pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide tliat life a 
mother only can bestow," will not do at all : it is 
not grammar— it is not intelligible. Do you mean 
" provide for that life which the mother had be- 
stowed and used to pi-ovide for?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, " Feel- 
ing" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the title of your 
copy of verses; but even fellow would be wi-ong: 
it is but a colloquial and vulgar word, unsuitable 
to your sentiments. " Sh t" is improper too.— On 
seeing a person (or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it 
is needless to add with what weapon : but if yoii 
think otherwise, you should say, ivitk a foivling' 
iriece. 



Let me see you when you colne to town, and 
I will shew you some more of Mrs. Hunter's po- 
ems*. 



No. LXXIV. 

To Mr. M'AULEY, of Dumbarton. 

Dear sir, 4th June, 1789, 

Though I am not without my fears respecting 
my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commoiJy called The Last Day, yet 
I trust there is one sin, which that arch vagabond, 
Satan, who I understand is lo be king's evidence, 
cannot throw in my teeth, I mean ingratitude. 
There is a certain pretty large quantum of kind- 
ness for which I remain, and, from inability, I fear 
must still remain, your debtor ; but though unable 
to repay the debt, I assure you, sir, I shall ever 
warmly remember the obligation. It gives me the 
sincerest pleasui-e to hear by my old acquaintance, 
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan^s 
language, " Hale and weel, and living;" and that 
your charming family are well, and promising to 
be an amiable and respectable addition to the com- 
pany of performers, whom the Great Manager of 
the drama of Man is bringing into action for the 
succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which 
you once warmly and effectively interested your- 
self, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, 
marking the growth of my corn, or the health of 
my dairy : and at times sauntering by tlie delight- 
ful w indiiigs of the Nith, on the margin of which 
I have built my humble domicile, praying for sea- 
sonable weather, or holding an intrigue with the 
muses ; the only gijjseys with whom I have now 
any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy 
state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned com- 
pletely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with all ho- 
nest fellows, to rei)eat no grievances, I hope that 
the little poetic licences of former days, will of 
course fall ui.der the oblivious influence of some 
good-natured statute of celestial proscription. In 
my family devotion, which, like a good presbyte* 
nan, I occasionally give to my household folks, I 
am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the er- 
rors of my youth, &c." and that other, " Lo chil- 
dren are God's heritage, &c." in which last, Mrs. 
Burns, who, by tlie bye, has a glorious " wood- 
note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 

* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not 
more distinguished by its good sense, than by its 
freedom from ceremony. It is impossible not to 
smile at the manner in which the poet may be sup- 
posed to have received it. In fact it appears, as 
the sailors say, to have thrown him quite aback. 
In a letter which he wrote soon after, he says, 
" Dr. G is a good man, but he crucifies me." 
—And again, " I believe in the iron justice of Dr. 
G— ; but, like the devils, 1 believe and tremble." 
However, he profited by these criticisms, as the 
reader will find, by comparing this first edition of 
the poem, with that published among the Foe^ns. 

E. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



187 



No. LXXV. 

To Mis. DUNLOP. 

Dear madam, ElUsland, 21st Jane, 1789. 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable effu- 
sions of low spirits, just as thry How from their 
bitter spring ? I know not of any particular cause 
for this worst of all my focs Ik setting me, but for 
some time my soul has been beclouded v\ ith a thick- 
ening atmospheie of evil imaginations and gloomy 
presages. 



Monday evening. 
1 have just heard ***** give a sermon. 
He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I 
rcA-ere him ; but from such ideas of my Creator, 
good Lord deliver me ! Religion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor 
and the rich. That there is an incomprehensibly 
Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and 
that he must be intimately acquainted with the 
operations and progress of the internal machinery, 
and consequent outward deportment of this crea- 
ture which he has made ; these are, I think, self- 
evideiit propositions. That there is a real and eter- 
nal distinction between virtue and vice, and con- 
sequently that I urn an accountable creature ; that 
from tlie seeming nature of the human mind, as 
well as from the evident imperfection, nay, posi- 
tive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both 
in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a 
retributive scene of existence beyond the grave •, 
must, I think, be .-allowed by every one who will 
give himself a moment's reflection. I will go far- 
ther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, excel- 
lence, and pui-ity of his doctrine and precepts, 
unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and 
learning of many pr<ceding ages, though, to ap- 
pearance he himself was the obscurest and most 
illiterate of our species ; therefore, Jesus Christ 
was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the 
happiness of others, this is my criterion of good- 
ness ; and whatever .injures society at large, or any 
individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What thiidi you, madam, of ^y creed ? I trust 
that I have said nothing that wm lessen me in the 
«j'e of one, whose good opinion I value almost 
next to the approbation of my own mind. 



of them merit of a different kind fiom what ap- 
pears in the poems you have published. You 
ought carefully to preserve all your occasional 
productions, to correct and improve them at your 
leisure ; and when you can select as many of 
these as will make a volume, publish it either at 
Edinburgh or London, by subscription: on such 
an occasion, it may be in my power, as it is very 
much in my inclination, to be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that 
in your future productions you should abandon 
the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt tlie mea- 
sure and language of modern English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of Christ 
kirk on the green, w ith the tiresome repetition of 
" that day," is fatiguing to English ears, and I 
should think not very agreeable to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your HoJij 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed the 
whole to them. The same is true of some of your 

other poems. In your Epistle to J. S , the 

stanzas, from that beginning with this line, " This 
life, so far's I understand," to that which ends 
with, " Short while it grieves," are easy, flowing, 
gaily philosophical, and of Horatian elegance— 
the language is English, with a. few Scottish words, 
and some of those so harmonious, as to add to the 
beauty ; for what poet would not prefer gloaming 
to tivilight ? 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and occa- 
sionally polishing and correcting those verses, w hich 
the muse dictates, )-ou will, within a year or two, 
have another volume as large as the first, ready for 
the press ; and this, without diverting you from 
every proper attention to the study and practice 
of husbandry, in which I understand you are very 
learned, and which I fancy you will choose to a«l- 
here to as a wife, while poetry amuses you from 
time to time, as a misti-ess. The former, like a 
prudent wife, must not shew ill humour, although 
you retain a sneaking kindness to this agreeable 
gipsey, and pay her occasional visits, which in no 
manner alienates your h< art from your lawful 
spouse, but tend on the contrary to promote her 
interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech to 
send you a copy of Zeluco. This performance has 
had great success here, but I shall be glad to have 
your opinion of it, because I value your opinion, 
and because I know you are above sajing what 
you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my very 
good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who I understand is 
your neighbour. If she is as happy as I wish her, 
she is happy enough. Make my compliments also 
to Mrs. Burns, and believe me to be, witli sincere 
esteem, 

Dear sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXVL 



From Dr. MOORE. 



Dear sir, Clifford-street, lOfh June, 1789. 

I thank you for the different communications 

you have made me of your occasional productions 

in manuscript, all of which have merit, and some 



No. LXXVII. 



From Miss J. LITTLE. 



Sir, Loudon House, 12th July, 1789. 

Though I have not the happiness of being pei*- 

sonally acquainted with you, yet amongst the num' 



188 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



ber of those who have read and admirtd your pub- 
lications, may I b. perniitttd to trouble you with 
this ? You must kiow, sir. I am somtwhat in love 
■with the muses, though I cannot boast of any fa- 
vours they have deig^ntd to confer upoi. me as 
yet ; my situation; in life lias been very much 
against me as to thst, 1 have spent some years in 
and about Eccleft chan (v here my parents reside), 
in the station of a st-rvatit, and am now come to 
ioudon houst, at present possessed by Mrs. H— — : 
she is daughter to Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom 
I understand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, I 
felt a partiality for the author, which I should not 
have experienced had you been in a more dignifi- 
ed station. I wrote a few verses of address to you, 
■which I did not then think of ever presenting ; but 
as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, by 
bringing me into a family, by whom you are well 
known, and much esteemed, and where perhaps I 
may^ have an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, 
in hopes of your future friendship, take the liber- 
ty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade reviv'd again 

In thee we greet. 

Lov'd Thalia, that delightfu' muse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse. 

Since Allan's day: 
'Till Bums arose, tlien did she choose 

To g^ace liis lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strikt- the dormant ly-re ; 
Apollo with poetic fii-e 

Thy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy ait to charm. 



Tlie daisy too ye sing wl' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill. 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughboy sing with throat sae dear, 

They in a rage 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to paint ; 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint. 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop ; with heart sincere 
To heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
Dispens'd by an indulgent care, 

To Robert Burns. 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in this ; 
my hand trembles while I write to you, conscious 
of my unwoithiness of w hat I would most earnest- 
ly solicit, viz. y our favour and friendship ; yet 
hoping you will shew yourself possessed of as 
much generosity and good nature as will prevent 
your exposing what may justly be found liable to 
censure in this measure, I shall take the liberty 
to subscribe myself^ 

Sir, your most obedient humble servant, 

JANET LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to honour me 
with a few lines from your hand, I would take it 
as a particular favour, and direct to me at Loudon 
house, near Galsloc. 



Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

"VVi' winsome glee tlie heart can teach 

A better lesson. 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's messon. 



No. LXXVIII. 



From Mr. 



My dear sir, London, Sth August, 1789. 

Excuse me \^en I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which yoW possess, must render your cor- 
respondence very acceptable to any one. I can as- 
sure you, I am particularly proud of your partial- 
ity, and shall endeavour, by every method in my 
power, to merit a continuance of your politeness. 



"When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And w omen's faithless vows you blame ; 
With so much pathos you exclaim. 

In your lament ; 
But, glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 



When y-ou can spare a few moments, I should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
Gerrard-street, Soho. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



189 



I caiinot express my happiness sufficiently at 
ihe instance of your attachment to my late ines- 
timable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was particu- 
larly intimate with myself and relations*. While 
I recollect with pleasure his extraordinary talents, 
and many amiable qualities, it affords me thf great- 
est consolation, that I am honoured with the cor- 
respondence of his successor, in national simplici- 
ty and genius. That Mr. Burns has refined in the 
art of poetry, must readily be admitted ; but not- 
withstanding many favourable representations, I 
am yet to learn that he iiilierils his convivial pow- 
ers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, such 
a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, that 
when I call the happy period of our intercourse 
to my memory, I feel myself in a state of delirium. 
I was then younger than him by eight or ten years, 
but his manner was so felicitous, that he enrap- 
tured every person around him, and infused into 
the hearts of the young and old, the spirit aud ani- 
mation which operated on his own mind. 

I amj dear sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXIX. 

To Mr. ******, 
In ansTver to the foregoing. 

My dear sir. 

The hurry of a fjirmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for neglect- 
ing so long to answer your obliging letter of the 
fifth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern in * * * * I do not 
doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention, were, I 
hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, 
and your health is a matter of the last importance ; 
but whether the remaining proprietors of the pa- 
per hav;' also done well, is what I much doubl. 
The * * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhibited 
such a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of 
paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, that 
I can hardly conceive it possible to continue a 
daily paper in the same degree of excellence ; but 
if there was a man who had abilities equal to the 
task, that man's assistance the proprietors have 
lost. 



When I received your letter I was transeribing 
for * * * *^ j^y letter to the magistrates of 
iJie Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permis- 
sion to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergusson, 
and their edict in consequence of my petition, but 
now I shall send them to ****** *. 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which I trust there is ; and if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence in 

* The erection of a monument to him. E. 



a glorious world, where worth of the heart alone is 
distinction in the man ; where riches, deprived of 
all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to 
their native sordid matter ; where titles and ho- 
nours are the disregarded reveries of an idle 
dream ; and where that heavy virtue, which is the 
negative consequence of steady dulness, and those 
thoughtless, though often destructive follies, which 
are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human 
nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion as if 
they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear sir ! So soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, I 
shall be glad to hear from you ; as your welfare 
and happiness is by no means a subject indiffer- 
ent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 
To Miss WILLIAMS. 

Madam, 1789. 

Of the many problems in the nature of that 
wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most 
extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to day, 
from week to week, from month to month, or per- 
haps from year to year, suffering a hundi'ed times 
more in an hour from the impotent consciousness 
of neglecting what he ought to do, tlian the very 
doing of it would cost him. J am decjily indebted 
to you, first for a most elegant poetic compli- 
ment* ; then for a polite, obliging letter ; and 
lastly for your excellent poem on the Slave- 
trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! though the 
debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a la- 
dy, I have put off and put oft" even the very ac- 
knowledgment of the obligation, until you must 
indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you 
can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest plea- 
sure. I have a way, whenever I read a book, I 
mean a book in our own trade, madam, a poetic 
one, and when it is my own property, that I take 
a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note 
on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of ap- 
probation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I 
will make no apology for presenting you with a 
few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me in 
my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to 
shew you that I have honesty enough to tell you 
what I take to be truths, even when they are not 
quite on the side of approbation ; and I do it in 
the firm faith that you have equal greatness of 
mmd to hear them with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me some 
books. They are not yet come to hand, but I hear 
they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress in the 
path of fame ; and that you may eqtially escape 
the danger of stumbling through incautious speed, 
or losing ground through loitering neglect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



* See page 154. 



190 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. LXXXI. 



From Miss WILLIAMS. 



Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with the most luelaucholy concern for 
the state of your mind at present. 



Dear sir, 7th August, 1789. 

I do not lose a moment in returning you my 
sincere acknowledgments for your letter, and your 
criticism on my poem, which is a very flattering 
proof that you have read it with attention. I tliink 
your objections are perfectly just, except in one 
instance 



You have indeed been very profuse of panegy- 
ric on my little performance. A much less jjortion 
of applause from j/ou, would have been gi'atifying 
to me ; since I think its value depends entirely up- 
on the source from whence it proceeds— the incense 
of praise, like other incense, is more grateful from 
the quality, than the quantity of the odour. 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of po- 
etry, which are precious even independent of the 
i-ewards of fame. Perhaps the most valuable pro- 
perty of poetry is its power of disengaging the 
mind from worldly cares, and leading the imagina- 
tion to the richest springs of intellectual enjoy- 
ment ; since however frequently life may be che- 
quered Avilh gloomy scenes, those who truly love 
the muse, can always find one little path adorned 
•with flowers and cheex'ed by sunsliine. 



No. LXXXIL 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Dear madam, EUisland, 6th Sept. 1789. 

I have mentioned in my last, my appointment 
to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; who, 
by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the ho- 
nourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly 
countenance, and a figure that might do credit to 
a little fellow two months older ; and likewise an 
excellent good temper, though when he pleases he 
lias a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that 
his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take 
out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

I had, some time ago, an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. L— , 
a very ingenious, but modest composition. I should 
have written her as she requested, but for the hur- 
ry of this new business. I have heard of her and 
her compositions in this country ; and I am happy 
to add, always to the honour of her character. The 
fact is, I know not well how to write to her : I 
should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew 
not )iow to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn let- 
ter-writing ; and except when prompted by friend- 
ship or gi-atitude, or, which happens extremely rare- 
ly, inspired by the muse (I know not her name) 
that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
•whin necessitated to writ*, as I would sit down to 
beat hemp. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I 
would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as I 
would to w rite an epic poem of my own composi- 
tion, that should equal the Iliad. Religion, my 
dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong per- 
suasion in a future state of existence ; a pruposi- 
tion so obriously probable, thut, setting revelation 
aside, every nation and people, so far as investiga- 
tion has reached, for at least near four thousand 
years, have, in some mode or other, firmly believed 
it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. 
I have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but 
when I reflected, that I was opposing the most ar- 
dent wish-L s, and the most darling hopes of good 
men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in 
all ages, I was shocked at ray own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of niy favourite quotations, which I 
keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war"— 

spoken of religion. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsak«rs us, and when friends are 

few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been very busy with Zeliico. The doctor 
is so obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and 
I have been revolving in my mind some kind of 
criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth be- 
yond my research. I shall however digest my 
thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zehico 
is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ] A Dieu, le bon Dieu, Je vous comi- 
mende ! 



No. LXXXIII. 

From Dr. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh. 24th August, 1789. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy -virtues and thy art ; 
If art it may be call'd in tliee 
Which nature's bounty large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses, 
And warms thy soul with all the muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sa^'s face, 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



191 



Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And rutliless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Thro' thee her oi'gan. thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much lov'd Jean her health ? 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
Whether the muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depressed no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain. 
If Bums could join the cheerful train. 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble ser\ant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXIV. 

To Dr. BLACKLOCK. 

ElUslantl, 2Ut October, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie J 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I ken'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lonl send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south J 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth. 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fail- one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
And, tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body*. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger— Peace be here 1 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then ray fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 



Te glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimpliu streamies 



Lowp, suig, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms— thraw saugh woodie»> 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care I 
I'm weary sick o't late and air I 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers ! 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van. 

Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man I 

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wifle, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie. 

As e'er ti'ead clay I 
And gratefully, my gude auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



* Mr Heron, author of the History of Scotland, 
lately publislied : and, among various other works, 
«f a respectable Ufe of oiir poet himself. E. 



No. LXXXV. 
To R. GRAHAM, Esq. of FINTRY. 

Sii% 9th December, 1789. 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you 
with a letter, and had certainly d<me it long em 
now— but for a humiliating something that throws 
cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, 
"You have found Mr. Graham a very powerful 
and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so 
kindly taking in your concerns, you ought, by eve- 
ry thing in your power, to keep alive and cherish." 
Now though since God has thought proper to make 
one powerful and another helpless, the connexion 
of obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though my 
being under your patronage is to me highly ho- 
nourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter mj self, that, 
as a poet and an honest man, you first interested 
yourself in my welfare, and principally as such 
still, you permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing a 
good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. Mifc 
<hel. my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. 



192 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and 
1 fear no labour. Nor do I find my hui-ried life 
greatly inimical to my correspondence with the 
muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe 
to most of theu- acquaintance, like the visits of 
good angels, are short and far between : but I meet 
them now and then as I jog tlu'ough the hills of 
Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of 
Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few ba- 
gatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure 
thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on hiin. Perhaps you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London news- 
paper. Though I dare say you have none of the 
solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which shone so 
conspicuous in lord George Gordon, and the Kil- 
marnock weavers, yet, I think, you must have 
heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, 
and his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! 
Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one 
of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the kirk 
of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous 
term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous fami- 
ly are in imminent danger of being thrown out to 
^e mercy of the winter-winds. The inclosed bal- 
lad on that business is I confess too local, but I 
laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am 
convinced in my conscience that there are a good 
many heavj^ stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as yon will see, alludes to 
the present canvass in our stiing of boroughs. I 
do not believe thei-e will be such a hard run match 
xa the whole general election*. 



I am too little a man to have any political at- 
tachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have the 
warmest veneration for, individuals of both par- 
ties, but a man, who has it in hi s power to be the 
father of a country-, and who ****** 
is a character that one cannot sjieak of with pa- 
tience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I 
doubt his fate. 



No. LXXXVI. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 



conducive to our happiness— or the most produe* 
tive of our misery. For nou near threv weeks, 
I have been so ill with a nervous head-ache, that 
I have been obliged to give up, for a time, my ex- 
cise-books, being scarce able to lift my head, much 
less to ride once a week over ten muir parishes. 
What is man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, 
exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few 
days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious 
painful being, counting the tardy pace of the lin- 
gering moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
and refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows 
night, and night comes after day, only to curse 
him with life which gives him no pleasure ; and 
yet the awful, dark termination of that life, is a 
something at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ! will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What ^tis you are, and rve must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, 
feverish being, I shall still find myself in consci- 
ous existence ! When the last gasp of agony has 
amiounced, that I am no more to those that knew 
me, and the few who loved me ; Avhen the cold, 
stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned 
into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, 
and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I yet 
be warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and en- 
joyed ? Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is 
there probability in your conjectures, truth in 
your stories, of another world beyond death ; or 
are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated 
fables? If there is another life, it must be only 
for the j ust, the benevolent, the amiable, and the 
humane ; what a flattering idea, then, is a world 
to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it, 
as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an 
aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings 
of an evil world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should I meet the friend, 
the disinterested friend of my early life ; the man 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and 

could serve me. Muir ! thy weaknesses were 

the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart 
glowed with every thing generous, manly, and no- 
ble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good Be- 
ing animated a human form, it was thine ! — There 
should I, with speechless agony of rapture, again 
recognize my lost, my ever-dear Mary ! whose bo- 
som was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and 
love. 



Ellisland, 13th December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheet-full 
of rhymes. Though, at present, I am below the 
veriest prose, yet from you every thing pleases. I 
am groaning under the miseries of a diseased ner- 
vous system ; a system, the state of which is most 

* This alludes to the contest for the borough of 
Dumfries, betwen the duke of Queensberry's in- 
terest and that of sir James JohiKt|One. 



My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend lus breast f 



Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters .' I 
trust thou art no impostor, and that thy revelation 
of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and 
the grave, is not one yf the many impositions. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



19d 



wliich time after time have been palmed on cre- 
dulous mankind. I trust that in tht-e " shall all 
the families of the earth be blessed," by beinjj yet 
lonnected tog^'ther in a better world, where every 
tie that bound heart to heart, in this state of ex- 
istence, shall be, far beyond our present concep- 
tions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those 
who maititain, that what are called nervous affec- 
tions are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot 
reason, I cannot thiuk ; and but to you I would 
not venture to write any thing above an order to 
a cobier. You have felt too much of the ills of 
life not to sympathize with a diseased wretch, 
who is impaired more than half of any faculties 
he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this dis- 
tracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely 
read, and which he would throw into the fire, 
were he able to write any thing better, or indeed 
any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours, 
who was returned from the East or West Indies. 
If you have gotten news of Jurnes or Anthony, it 
was cruel in you not to let me kno>v ; as 1 promise 
you, on the sincerity of a man, who is weary of 
one world and anxious abo.ut another, that scarce 
any thing could give me so much pleasure as to 
hear of any good thiiig befalling my honoured 
friend. 

If you have a mjnute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le paiivre miserable 

R. B. 



No. LXXXVII. 

To SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been 
omitted in the satistical accouiit, transmitted to 
you, of the parish of Dunseore, in Nithsdale. I 
beg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and 
may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place 
in your patriotic publication, you are tlie best 
judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals, and to so- 
ciety at large. Giving them a turn for reading 
and reflection, is giving them a source of innocent 
and laudable amusement ; and besides, raises them 
to a more dignified degree in the scale of ration- 
ality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in 
this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set 
on foot a species of circulating library, on a plan 
so simple as to be practicable in any corner of the 
country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman, who thinks the im- 
provement of that part of his own species, whom 
chance has thrown into the humble walks of the 
peasant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his 
attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves iiito 
a society for tl»e purpose of having a library 
among themselves. Ihey entered into a legal en- 



gagement to abide by it for three years ; with a 
saving clause or two, in case of removal to a dis- 
tance, or of death. PLach member, at his entry, 
paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which Averc held every fourth Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their entry money, and the credit 
which they took on the faith of their future funds, 
they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the com- 
mencement. What authors tliey were to purchase, 
was always decided by the majority. At every 
meeting, all the books, under certain fines and for- 
feitures, by May of penalty, were to be produced ; 
and the members had their choice of the volumes 
in rotation. He, whose name stood, for that night, 
first on the list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had 
his choice after the first ; the third after the se- 
cond, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding 
meeting, was last at this ; he who had been se- 
cond was first ; and so on through the whole three 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, the 
books were sold by auction, but only among the 
members themselves ; and each man had his share 
of the common stock, in money or in books, as he 
chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which 
was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what 
with benefactions of booKs from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected to- 
gether upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. 
It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trash 
would be bought. Among the books, however, ot* 
this little library, were, Blair's Sermons, Robert- 
sari's History of Scotland, Hume^s History of the 
Stewarts, The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mir- 
ror, Lowiger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of 
the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- 
drews, <b'c, A peasant, who can read and enjoy 
such books, is certaii.ly a much superior being to 
his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, 
very little removed, except in shape, from the 
brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so mucJli 
merited success, 

I am, sir. 

Your humble servant, 

A PEASANT*. 

* The above is extracted from the third volume 
of sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598.— It was in- 
closed to sir John, by Mr. Riddel himself, in the 
following letter, also printed there. 

" Sir John, 

" I inclose you a letter, written by Mr. Burns, 
as an addition to the account of Dunseore parish. 
It contains an account of a small library, which 
he was so good (at my deisre) as to set on foot, in 
the barony of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this 
parish. As its utility has been felt, particularly 
among the younger class of people, I think, that 
if a similar plan were established, in the different 
parishes of Scotland, it would tt;nd greatly to the 
speedy improvement of the tenantry, trades-peo- 
ple, and work-people. Mr. Ruri.s was so good as 
to lake the whole charge of this small concern. 
R i* 



194 



dfiNERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. LXXXVm. 

TO CHARLES SHARP, Esq. 

OF HODDAM. 

Under ajictitious signature, inclosing a ballad, 
1790 or 1791. 

It is true, sir, you are a gentleman of ranlc and 
fortune, and I am a i)oor devil : you are a feather 
in the cap of society, and I am a very hobnail in 
liis shoes ; yet I have the honour to belong' to the 
same family with you, and on that score I now 
address you. You will perhaps suspect that I am 
going to claim affinity with the ancient and ho- 
nourable house of Kilpatrick ? No, no, sir : I can- 
not, indeed, be propei'ly said to belong to any 
house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my 
mother, who for many years was spouse to a march- 
ing regiment, gave me into this bad world, aboard 
the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee 
and Portpatrick. By our common family, I mean, 
sir, the family of the muses. I am a fiddler and a 
poet ; and you, I am told, play an exquisite vio- 
lin, and have a standard taste in the belles let- 
tres. The other day, a brother catgnt gave me a 
charming Scots air of your composition. If I was 
pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the 
title you have given it ; and taking up the idea, 
I have spun it into the three stanzas inclosed. 
Will you allow me, sir, to present you them, as 
the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of po- 
verty and rhyme has to give ? I have a longijig to 
take you by the hand and unburthen my heart by 
sayiug, " sir, I honour you as a man, who sup- 
ports the dignity of humau nature, amid an age, 
when frivolity and avarice have, between them, 
debased us below the brutes that perish !" But, 
alas ! sir, to me you are unapproachable. It is true, 
the muses baptized me in Castalian streams, but 
the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a name. 
As the sex have sersed many a good fellow, the 
nine have given me a great deal of pleasure, but, 
bewitching jades ! they have beggared me. Would 
they but spare me a little of their cast-linen ! 
Avere it only to put it in my power to say, tliat 
I have a shirt on my back ! But the idle wenches, 
like Solomon's lilies, " they toil not, neither do 
they spin ;" so I must e'en continue to tie my 
remnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope, 
round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins 
to keep together their many-coloured fragments. 
As to the atfair of shoes, I have given that up.— 
My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to 
town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, 

He was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this lit- 
tle society, who will long have a grateful sense of 
his public spirit and exertions for their improve- 
ment and information. 

I have the honour to be, sir John, 
Yours most sincerely, 

ROBERT RIDDEL. 
•• To sir John Sinclair, 
of Uibster, Bart.'''' 



are what not even the hide of /ob's bchemotft 
could bear. The coat on my back is no more : I 
shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be 
equally unhandsome and ungrateful to fii>d fault 
with my old suf tout, which so kindly supplies and 
conceals the want of that coat. My hat, indeed, is 
a great favourite ; and though I got it literally 
for an old song, I would not exchange it for the 
best beaver in Britain. I was, daring several 
years, a kind of fac-totum servant to a country 
clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps 
of learning, particulai'ly in some branches of the 
mathematics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest 
myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, 
laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my 
fiddle-case on the other, and, placing my hat be- 
tween my legs, I can, by means of its brim, or ra- 
ther brims, go through the whole doctrine of the 
conic sections. 

How ever, sir, don't let me mislead you , as if I 
would interest your pity. Fortune has so much 
forsaken me, that she has taught me to live with- 
out her ; and amid all my rags and poverty, I am 
as independent, and much more happy, than a mo- 
narch of the world. According to the hackneyed 
metaplwr, I value the several actors in the great 
drama of life, simply as they act their parts. I 
can look on a worthless fellow of a diike with un- 
qualified contempt ; and can regard an honest sca- 
venger with sincere respect. As you, sir, go 
through your role with such distinguished merit, 
permit me to make one in tJie chorus of univer- 
sal applause, and assure you that, with the highest 
respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. LXXXIX. 
To Mr. GILBERT BURNS. 

Elllsland, 11th January, 1790. 

Dear brother, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not, in my present frame of mind, much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are 
in a * * * * state. I feel that -horrid hypo- 
chondria pervading every atom of both body and 
soul. This form has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous aifair on all hands. But 
let it go to •*** ! I'll fight it out and be off with 
it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening or 
two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the 
manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who 
is a man of apparent worth. On uew-year-day 
evening I gave him the following prologue, which 
he sjiuuted to liis audience with applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste— the more's the pity : 
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year I 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



195 



Old Fatber Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preacli, but tell his simple story : 
The sajje grave aneieiit cougli'd, and bade me say, 
" You're one year older this important day ;" 
If iviscr too— he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word— '^'■t/iink !'' 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and 

spirit, 
Who think to s^torm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententiotis, proverb way .' ^ 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle. 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him. 
Yet by the foro-lock is the hold to catch him ; 
That, whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Biild-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — ?iow.' 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sine re. tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it. 
Believe our glow ing bosoms truly feel it. 



I can no more.— If once I was clear of this 
fai'm, I should respire more at ease. 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ell/iland, 25th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of bu- 
siness that I have not written to you, madam, long 
ere now. My health is greatly better, and I now 
begin once more to share in satisfaction and en- 
joyment with the rest of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me run 
the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in 
my own eyes ? When I pique myself on my in- 
dependent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic licence, 
nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with the 
honour you have done me, in making me your 
compeer in friendship and friendly correspondence, 
that I cannot without pain, and a degree of mor- 
tification, be remiudfd of the real inequality be- 
tween our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear ma- 
dam, in the good news of Anthony. Not only your 
anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for 
such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow. 



in the little I had of his acquaintance, has inter- 
ested lue deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the S/ii/t- 
wreck, which you so much admire, is no more. 
After weathering the dreadful catastrophe he so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after weather- 
ing many hard gales of fortune, he went to the 
bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what 
part of Scotland had the honour of giving him 
birth, but he was the son of obscurity and misfor- 
tune*. He was one of those daring adventureus 
spirits, which Scotland beyond any other country 
is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond 
mother think, as she hangs delighted over the 
sweet little leech at her Ixjsom, whi^-e the poor 
fellow may hei'eafter wander, and what may be 
his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish 
ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, 
speaks feelingly to the heart : 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me. 
What land I was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die !" 

Old Scottish songs are, jou know, a favourite 
study and pui-suit of mine, and now I am on that 
subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of ano- 
ther old simple ballad, which I am sure will please 
you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruin- 
ed female, lamenting her fate. She concludes 
w ith this pathetic w ish : 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young] 



* Falconer was in eai-ly life a sea-boy, to use 
a word of Shakspeare, on board a man of war, iu 
which capacity he attracted the notice of Camp- 
bell, the author of the satire on Dr. Johnson, en- 
titled Le.viphanes, then purser of the ship. Camp- 
bell took him as his servant, and delighted in giv- 
ing him instruction ; and when Falconer after- 
wards acquired celebrity, boasted of him as his 
scholar. The editor had this information from a 
surgeon of a man of war, in 1777, who knew both 
Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished 
soon after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so 
lately as 1770 or 1771, yet in the biograpliy pre- 
fixed by Dr. Anderson to his works, in the com- 
plete edition of the Poets of Great Britain, it is 
said, " of the family, birth-place, and education of 
William Falconer, there are no memorials." On 
the authority already given, it may be mentioned, 
that he was a native of one of the towns on the 
coast of Fife, and that his parents, who had suf- 
fered some misfortunes, removed to one of the 
sea-ports of England, where they both died soon 
afttr of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, 
then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence 
of which he entered on board a man of war. These 
last circumstances are however less certain. 

K. 



196 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep '" 

I do not remember, in all my reading, to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. Mi- 
sery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the 
author must have felt it. 

I arn every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little godson* the small-pox. They are rife 
iu the country, and I ti-emble for his fate. By 
the way I cannot help congratulating you on his 
looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, ac- 
knowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child 
he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the 
manly swell of his little chest, and a certain mini- 
ature dignity in the carriage of liis head, and the 
glance of his fine black eye, which promise the 
undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are 
tired of it, next time I have the honour of assur- 
ing you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCI. 



From Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

28^/j January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words, but the value I have 
for your friendship, nothing can more truly or 
more elegantly express than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, 1 am apt to think my letters have 
miscarried. My conjecture is only framed upon 
the chapter of accidents turning up against me, as 
it too often does, in the trivial, and I may with 
truth add, the more important affairs of life ; but 
I shall continue occasionally to inform you what 
is going on among the circle of your friends in 
these parts. In these days of merriment, I have 
frequently heard your name proclaimed at the jo- 
vial board— under the roof of our hospitable friend 
at Steuhouse-uiills, there were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New-Tear, in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions 1 shall 
say nothing ; but my acquaintances allege, that 
when your jiarae is mentioned, wliich every man 
of celebrity must know often happens, I am the 
chan.pion, the Mendoza, against ail snarling cri- 
tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a feiv 
on this planet do craxvl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black-eyed sister, I reniidn, jours, &c. 

* The bard's second son, Francis. 



No. XCIL 

To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 13th February, 1790. 
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet— 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet of 
gilt, >yhich lies in ray drawer among my plebeian 
fool's-cap pages, like the widow of a man of fa- 
shion, whom that unpolite scoundrel. Necessity, 
has driven from burgundy and pine-apple, to a 
dish of bohea with the scandal-bearing help-mate 
of a village priest ; or a glass of whiskey toddy, 
with the ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding 
exciseman— I make a vow to inclose this sheet-full 
of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap of 
gilt- paper. 

I am, indeed, your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have scarce- 
ly a spare moment. It is not that I will not write 
to you ; miss Burnet is not more dear to her guar- 
dian angel, nor his grace the duke of *****»*»* 
to the powers of *»*****, than my friend Cun- 
ningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to 
you ; should you doubt it, take the following frag- 
ment, which was intended for you some time ago, 
and be convinced that I can a7itithesize sentiment, 
and circumvohtte periods, as well as any coiner of 
phrase in the regions of philology. 



December, 1789, 
My dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? Can 
you be that son of levity, who takes up a friend- 
ship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, like 
some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, 
the victim of indolence, laden with fetters of ever- 
increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a 
portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is 
surely v. orthy of an inquiry, whether there be not 
such a thing as a science of life ; whether method, 
economy, and fertility of expedients be not appli- 
cable to enjoyment ; and whether there be not a 
want of dexterity in pleasure, which renders our 
little scantling of happiness still less ; and a pro- 
fuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to 
satiet) , disgust, and self-abhorrence. There is not 
a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent 
competency, respectable friends, are real substan- 
tial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those, 
who enjoy many or all of these good things, con- 
trive, notwitlistanding, to be as unhappy as others 
to whose lot few of them have fallen ? I believe 
one great source of this mistake or misconduct is 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



197 



owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambi- 
tion, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we 
ascend other eminences, for the laudable curiosity 
of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for 
the dishonest pride of looking down on others of 
our fellow creatures, seemingly diminutive in hum- 
bler stations, &c. &c. 



Sundaij, 14th February, 1790. 
God help me I I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these 
churches, I am ****** past redemption, and what 
is worse, ****** to all eternity. I am deeply read 
in Boston's Four-fold State, Marshal on Sanctifica- 
tion, Guthrie'' s Trial of a Saving Interest, &c. but 
" There is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician 
there," for me ; so 1 shall e'en turn Arminian, and 
trust to " Sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, 16th. 
Luckily for me, I was prevented from the dis- 
cussion of the knotty point at which 1 had just 
made a full stop. All my fears and cares are of 
this world ; if there is another, an honest man has 
nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that \\ ishes 
to be a deist; but I fear, every fair, unprejudiced 
inquirer, must in some degree be a sceptic. It is 
not that there are any very staggering ai-guments 
against the immortality of man ; but like electri- 
city, phlogiston, &c. the subject is so involved in 
darkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing 
frightens me much : that we are to live for ever, 
seems too good neivs to be true. That we are to 
«'nter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt 
IVora want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and 
our friends without satiety or separation — how 
much should I be indebted to any one who could 
fully assure me that this was certain ! 



No. XCIII. 
To Mr. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monklan(t Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their library 
by the following books, which you are to send us 
as soon as possible :—TAe Mirror, The Lounger, 
Man of Feeling, Man of the World (these for my 
own sake I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox''s 
History of the Reformation ; Rae''s History of the 
Rebellion in 1715 ; any good History of the Rebel- 
lion in 1745 ; A Display of the Secession Act and 
Testimony, by Mr. Gib ; Hervey''s Meditations ; 
Beveridge^s Thoughts ; and anotlier copy of IVat- 
son''s Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me, into 
your hands, and lately I wrote to you to the same 
purpose, but I have heard from neither the one 
nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in my 
last, I want very much. An Index to the Excise 
Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Statutes noiv in 
force, relative to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; 
I want three copies of this book : if it is now to 
be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. An honest 
country neighbour of mine wants too, A Family 
Bible, the larger the better, but second-handed, 
for he does not choose to give above ten shillings 
for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you 
can pick them up, second-handed or cheap, copies 
of Otway^s Dramatic Works, Ben JonsoiVs, Dry- 
deji^s, Congreve\9, Wycherly''s, Vanbrtigh^s, Cibber''s, 
or any Dramatic Works of the more modern Mack- 
lin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good 
copy too of Molierc, in French, I much want. Any 
other good dramatic authors in that language I 
want also ; but comic authors chiefly, though I 
should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire 
too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but 
if you accidentally meet with them very cheap, get 
them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend ? and how is Mrs. Hill ? 
I trust, if now and then not so elegantly handsome, 
at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. 
My good wife, too, has a charming " wood-note 
wild ;" now could we four 



My time is once more expired. I will write to 
Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his 
concerns ! And may all the powers that preside 
over conviviality and friendship, be present with 
all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, 
Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could also 
make one— I think we should be * * * »^ 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever things 
are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, whatso- 
ever things are charitable, whatsoever things are 
kind, think on these things, and think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevolent 
creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly instances, 
I do not think that avarice of the good lhi)igs we 
chance to have, is born with us ; but we are placed 
here, amid so much nakedness, and hunger, and 
poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed ne- 
cessity of studying selfishness, in order that we 
may exist ! Still there are, in every age, a few 
souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot 
debase to selfishness, or even to the necessary al- 



198 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



loy of caution and prudence. If ever 1 am in dan- 
ger of vanit)-, it is when 1 contemplate myself on 
tliis side of my disposition and character. God 
knows I am no saint ; I have a whole host of fol- 
lies and sins to answer for ; but if I could, and I 
believe I do it as far as I can, I would wipe away 
all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, en- 
joyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper of 
the Lounger. You know my national prejudices. 
I had often read and admired the Spectator, Ad- 
venturer, Rambler, and JVorld ; but still with a 
certain regret, that they were so thoroughly and 
entirely English. Alas I have I often said to my- 
self, what are all the boasted advantages which my 
country reaps from the union, that can counter- 
balance the annihilation of her independence, and 
even her very name ! I often repeat that couplet 
of my favourite poet, Goldsmith— 

" States of native liberty possest, 

Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, 
** English embassador, English court," &c. And 
I am out of all patience to see that equivocal cha- 
racter, Hastings, iuipeached by " the commons of 
England." Tell me, my friend, is this weak pre- 
judice ? I believe in my conscience such ideas as 
" my country ; her independence ; her honour ; the 
illustrious names that mark the history of my na- 
tive land ;" &c.— I believe these, Among your men 
of the -world, men who, in fact, guide for the most 
part and govern our world, are looked on as so 
many modifications of wrongheadedness. They 
know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse 
or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, 
with almost all the able statesmen that ever ex- 
isted, or now exist, when they talk of right and 
wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and 
their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, 
but what they dare. For the truth of this, I shall 
not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to 
one of the ablest judges of men, and himself one 
of the ablest men that ever lived— the celebrated 
carl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could tho- 
roughly controul his vices, whenever they inter- 
fered with his interests, and who could completely 
put on the appearance of every virtue as often as 
it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, 
the perfect man ; a man to lead nations. But are 
great abilities, complete without a flaw, and po- 
lished without a blemish, the standard of human 
excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
oi men of the ivorld ; but I call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the stygian doctrine a loud ne- 
gative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you 
abstract from man the idea of an existence beyond 
the grave, then, the true measure of human con- 
duct is, proper and improper : virtue and vice, as 



dispositions of the Iieart, are, in that case, of scarce- 
ly the same import and value to the world at large, 
as harmony and discord in the modifications of 
sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice 
ear for music, though it may sometimes give the 
possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser or- 
gans of the herd, yet, considering the harsh grat- 
ings, and iMharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned state 
of being, it is odds but the individual would be as 
liappy, and certainly would be as much respected 
by the true judges of society, as it would then 
stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. 
You must know I have just met with the Mir- 
ror and Lounger for the first time, and I am quite 
in raptures with them ; I should be glad to have 
your opinion of some of the papers. The one I 
have just read, Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more 
honest tears than any thing I have read for a long 
time. M'Kenzie has been called the Addison of 
the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison would not 
be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addi- 
son's exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes 
him in the tender and the pathetic. His Man of 
Feeling (but I am not counsel learned in the laws 
of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in 
its kind, I ever saw. From what book, moral or 
even pious, will the susceptible young mind re- 
ceive impressions more congenial to humanity and 
kindness, generosity and benevolence ; in sljort, 
more of all that ennobles the soul to hei-self, or en- 
dears her to others— than from the simple affecting 
tale of poor Hurley ? 

Still, with all my admiration of M'KenzJe's vvrit- 
ings, I do not know if they are the fittest reading 
for a young man who is about to set out, as the 
phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you 
think, madam, that among the few favoured of 
heaven in the structure of their minds (for such 
there certainly are), there may be a purity, a ten- 
der^iess, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are 
of no use, nay, in sorae degree, absolutely disqua- 
lifying, for the truly important business of making 
a man's way into lift- ? If I am not much mistaken, 
my gallant young friend, A******, is vei*j- much 
under these disqualifications ; and for the young 
females of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
acquaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, a hum- 
ble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind 
which may render them eminently happy— or pe- 
culiarly miserable 1 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; 
but as I have got the most hurried season of ex- 
cise business over, I hope to have more leisure ta 
transc.ibe any thing that may show how much I 
have the honour to be, madam, yours, &c. 



No. XCV. 

From Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

My dear Burns, Edinburgh, 25th May, 1789. 

I am much indebted to you, for your last friend- 
ly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a part of the 
vanity of my composition, to retain your correspon- 
dence through life. It was remarkable your intro- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



159 



duciiig the name of Miss Burnet, at a time when 
she was in such ill liealth ; and I am sure it will 
grieve your gentle heart, to hear of her being in 
tJie last stage of a consumption. Alas ! that so 
much beauty, innocence, and virtue should be nipt 
in the bud. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness— 
of sensibility, not of allurement ; and her eleg.tnce 
of manners corresponded with the purity anil ele- 
vation of her ntind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure she 
still retains her aftection for you, and that you 
have many of her favours in your possessio. , which 
I have not seen. I weary much to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life 
prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys the blessing 
of good health. All your friends here are well, 
among whom, and not the least, is your acquaint- 
ance Cleghorn. As for myself, I am well, as far as 

these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable friend, 
J. Syme, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and 
bid, God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon in 
Edinburgh ? 



Fielding, Richardson, and Smollet, in your diffei-- 
ent qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I 
own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may pro- 
bably never bring the business to bear; for I am 
fond of the spirit young Elihu shews in the 
book of Job—" And I said, I will also declare my 
opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
book with my annotations. I never take it up with- 
out at the same time taking my pencil, and mark- 
ing with asterisms, parentheses, &c. wherever I 
meet with an original thought, a nervous remark 
on life and manners, a rejuarkably well-turned pe- 
riod, or a character sketched with uncommon pre- 
cision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writing 
out my " Comparative view," I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
" That time shall be no morel" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am indebt- 
ed to the fair author for the book, and not, as I 
rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other 
sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, 
with my grateful acknowledgments, and my own 
ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. 
1 would do this last, not from any vanity of think- 
ing that my remarks could l)e of much conse- 
quence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own 
feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. 



No. XCVII. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 



No. XCVI. 



To Dr. MOORE. 



Sir, Dumfries, Excise-office, Uth Julij, 1790. 

Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this office, it being collection-day, I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way to 
London ; so I take the opportunity of writing to 
you, as franking is at present under a temporary 
death. I shall have some snatches of leisure 
throxigh the day, amid our horrid business and 
bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; 
but let my letter be as stupid as **♦»** 
• * *, as miscellaneous as a news-paper, as short 
as a hungrj' grace-before-meat, or as long as a law- 
paper in the Douglass cause ; as ill spelt as coun- 
try John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as 
Betty Byre-muckei-'s answer to it ; I hope, consi- 
dering circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as 
it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall 
have the less reflection about it. 

I ajii sadly ungrateful in not returning you my 
thanks for your jnost valuable present, Zelttco. In 
fact, you are io.jiome degree blamable for my ne- 
glect. You were pleased to express a wish for my 
opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that 
nothing less would serve my over-weening fancy, 
than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I 
h«ve gravely plaantd a comparative view of yon, 



Dear madam, 8th August, 1790. 

After a long flay's toil, plague, and care, I sit 
down to write to you. Ask me not why I have de- 
layed it so long. It was owing to hurry, indolence, 
and fifty other things ; in short to any thing— but 
forgetfulness of la plus uiinable de son se.ve. By 
the bye, you are indebted your best courtesy to me 
for tliis last cOmpliment ; as I pay it from my sin- 
cere conviction of its truth— a quality rather rare 
in compliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping 
times. 

Well, I hope wilting to you will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bmised to- 
day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate 
acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a 
wound that I perceive will gangrene dangerously 
ere it cure. He has wounded my pride I 



No. XCVIII. 
To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellislaud, 8th August, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear frien<!, 
my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and 
fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather, to beat my brainy 
for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of acouu- 



200 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



try grannum at a family christening ; a bride on 
the market-day before her marriage ; * * * 
»♦********» * « * 
♦ »***»*** **a tavern- 
keeper at an election-dinner ; &c. &c.— but the re- 
semblance that hits my fancy best is, that black- 
guard miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a 
roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may de- 
vour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose 
(and who would not choose) to bind down with the 
crampets of Attention, the brazen foundation of 
Integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of In- 
dependence, and, from its daririg turrets, bid defi- 
ance to the storms of fate. And is not this a " con- 
sumiiiation devoutly to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me sliare ; 

" Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the stoi-m that howls along the sky !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the intro- 
duction of Smollef's Ode to Independence. If you 
have not seen the poem, I will sejid it to you. — 
How wretched is the man that hangs on by the 
favours of the great ] To shrink from every dig- 
nity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of 
self-coi' sequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter, 
and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as 
thou an— and perhaps not so well formed as thou 
ait— came into the world a puling infant as thou 
didst, and must go out of it as all men must, a na- 
ked corse*. 



No. XCIX. 

From Dr. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 
How does my friend, much I languish to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear. 
With love of the muses so strongly still smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 
But from age and infirmity, indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed : 
A man of integrity, genius, and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the Bee. 
Of this, from himself, I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can. 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which, more or less, human nature nmst share, 
Some moments of leisure the muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay bloom, 
With some rays of your genius her work may il- 
lume, 

* The preceding letter explains the feelings un- 
der which this was written. The strain of indig- 
nant invective goes on some time longtr ii\ the style 
which our bard was too apt to indulge, and of which 
the reader has alreadv seen so much. E. 



Whilst the flow'r whence her honey spontaneously 
flows, 

As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 
Now witli kind gratulations 'tis time to conclude, 

And add, your promotion is liere understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, sir. 

We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor; 

You then more at leisure, and free from controul. 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in your 
soul. 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way; 

Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey. 

From verses tho' languid, my thoughts must un- 
bend, 

The' still I remain your affectionate friend, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. C. 

Extract of a letter 
From Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1790. 

1 lately received a letter from our friend B*** 
******.— What a charming fellow lost to society !— 
born to great expectations— with superior abilities, 
a pure heart, and untainted morals, his fate in life 
has been hard indeed— still I am persuaded he is 
happj' ; not like the gallant, the gay Lothario, but 
in the simplicity of rural enjoyment, unmixed with 
regret at the remembrance of " the days of other 
years*." 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover of your 
newspaper, Mr. Wood's poem on Thomson. This 
poem has suggested an idea to me which you alone 
are capable to execute :— a song adapted to each 
season of the year. The task is difficult, but the 
theme is charming : should you succeed, I will un- 
dertake to get new music worthy of the subject. 
What a fine field for your imagfination ! and who 
is there alive can draw so many beauties from na- 
ture and pastoral imagery as yourself? It is, by the 
way, surprizing that there does not exist, so far as 
I know, a proper song for each season. We have 
songs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one au- 
tumnal song. Harvest Home. As your muse is nei- 
ther spavined nor rusty, you may mount the hill 
of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your 
pocket for every season. For my suggestions, if I 
be rude, correct me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; 
if presuming, despise me. But if you blend all my 
weaknesses, and pound out one grain of insinceri- 
ty, then am I not thy 

Faithful friend, Sec. 

No. CL 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 
" As cold waters to a thirsty s^ul, so is good 
news from a far country." -i 



* The person here alluded to, is Mr. S. who en- 
gaged the editor in this uudertaking. See the 4"^* 
dication. E. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



201 



Pate has long^ owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in retiii-n for tho many tidings of sorrow 
whicli I have received. In this instance I most 
cordially obey the apostle—" Rejoice with them 
that do rejoice"— for me, to sing for Joy, is no 
new thing ; but to liveach for joy, as I have done 
in the commencement of this epistle, is a ]titch of 
extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter— 1 literally jumped for joy.— 
How could such a mercurial creature as a poet, 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receii)t of the best 
news from his best friend .' I seized iay gilt-headed 
AVangee rod, an instrument indispensably neces- 
sary in my left hand, in the moment of iaspii-ation 
and rapture ; and stride, stride— quick and quicker 
— out skipt I among the bi'ooiny banks of Nith, to 
muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the 
bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a 
more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment 
to tlie sweet little fellow, tlian I extempore almost 
poured out to liim, in the following vei-ses. See 
the poem On the Birth of a Posthumous Child. 



I mean the introductory couplets, as text ver«e?. 



ELEGY 

071 the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo, 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely froin her native skies; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form, and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work, tlie Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, j'e groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shord. 
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is no more. 



I am much flattered by your approbation of my 
Tarn o' Shunter^ which you express in your former 
letter ; though, by the bye, you load Jue in that said 
letter with accusations heavy and maii}^ ; to all 
which I plead, not guilty ! Your book is, I hear, 
on the road to reach me. As to printing of poet- 
ry, wh' n you prepare it for the press, you have 
only to spell it right, and place the capital letters 
properly: as to the punctuation, the printers do 
that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tain o' Shanter ready to send 
you by the tirst opportunity : it is too heavy to 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in conse- 
quence of your recommendation, is mt-si zealous 
to serve me. Please favour me soon with an ac- 
count of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is recovering, 
and the young gentleman doing well. 



Ye heathy wastes, unmix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, w ith sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes whose ciunb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 
And not a muse in honest grie; bewail? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the spheres; 

But, like the sun eclips'd at moruijig tide, 
Thou left'st us darKling in a world of tears. 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu I 



To Mr. PETER HILL. 



To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 23d Januarij, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear friend I As many of the good things of this 
life, as is consistent with the usual mixture of 
good and evil, in the cup of Being .' 

I have just finished a poem, which you will re- 
ceive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of 
tales. 

I have these several months been hammering 
at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss 
Buriiet. I have got, and can get, no farther than 
the following fragment, on which, please give me 
your strictures. In all kinds of poetic composition, 
I set great store by your opinion ; but in senti- 
mental verses, in the poetry of the heart, no Ro- 
man catholic ever set more value on the infallibi- 
lity of the holy father, than I do on vours. 



17th January, 1791, 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 
against that ****** account of yours ! which has 
gagged my mouth these five or six months ! I can 
as little write good things as apologies to the man 
I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of iuaking 
three guineas do the business of five ! Not all the 
labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' three 
centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an in- 
superable business, such an ******** task ! ! Po- 
verty I thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-g-er- 
man of hell ! where shall I find force of execra- 
tion equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? Op- 
pressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoa- 
ry in the jjractice of every virtue, laden with years 
and wreiclu'diKss, implores a little— little aid tu 
support his existence, from a stonj-hearted son of 
Manimon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a 
cloud ; and is by him denied and insulted Op- 
pressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
C c. 



203 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



glows with independenee, and melts with sensibi- 
bility, inly pints under the neglect, or writhes in 
bitterness of soul under the contumely, of ari'o- 
gant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the 
son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants 
him at the tables of the fasliionable and polite, 
must see, in suffering silence his remark neglect- 
ed, and his person despised, while shallow great- 
ness, in his ideot attempts at wit, shall meet with 
countenance and applause. Nor is it only the fa- 
mily of worth that have reason to complain of 
thee : the children of folly and vice, though, in 
common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart 
equally under thy rod. Owing to th^e, the man 
of unfortunate disposition and neglected educa- 
tion, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, 
despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his 
follies as usual bring him to want ; and when his 
unpi-incipled necessities drive him to dishonest 
practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and per- 
ishes by the justice of his countrj. But far other- 
wise is the lot of the man of family ard fortune. 
His early follies and extravagance, are spirit a!>d 
fire ; his consequent war.ts. arc the embarrass- 
ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy 
the matter, he has gained a legal commission to 
plunder distant pi-ovinces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with thi.^ spoils 
of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respect- 
ed, and dies a ******* and a lord.— Nay, worst of 
all, alas for heipltss woman ! the needy prostitute, 
■who has shivered at the corner of the street, wait- 
ing to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is 
left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the 
chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, hurrying on to 
the guilty assignation ; she, who without the same 
necessities to plead riots nightly in the same guilty 
trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, 
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy is 
to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonder- 
fully relieved by their respective evacuations. 



No. CIV. 
From A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Edinburgh, 12th March, 1791. 

Dear sir, 

Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet of 
Grose''s AntiqiiHies, containing a poem of yours, 
entitled. Tarn o' Shanter, a tale. The very higJi 
pleasure I have received from the perusal of this 
admirable piece, I feel, demands the warmest ac- 
knowledgments. Hill tells me he is to send OiT a 
packet for you this day ; I cannot resist therefore 
putting on paper what 1 must have told you in 
person, had I met with you after the recent peru- 
sal of your tale, which is, that I feel I owe you a 
debt, which, if undischarged, would reproach me 
with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life tast- 
ed of higher enjoyment from any work of genius, 
than I have received from this composition ; and 



I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, had yati 
never written another syllable, would not have 
been sufficient to have tiMiismitted your name 
down to posterity with high reputation. In the 
introductory part where you paint the character 
of your hero, and exhibit him at the alehouse i/i- 
gle, with his tippling cronies, you have delineated 
nature with a humour and naivcti, that would do 
honour to Matthew Prior ; but when you describe 
the unfortunate orgies of the witches' sabbath^ 
and the hellish scenery in which they are exhibit- 
ed, you display a power of imagination, that Shak- 
speare himself could not have exceeded. I know 
not that I have ever met with a picture of more 
horrible fancy than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shew'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ran cold within me : 

" A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft.''* 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
mair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the descriptive 
part might perhaps have been better closed, than 
the four lines which succeed, wliich, though good 
in themselves, yet, as they derive all their merit 
from the satire they contain, are here rather mis- 
placed among the circumstances of pure horror*.; 
The initiation of the y> ung witch is most happily 
described— the effect of her charms exhibited ia 
the dance on Satan himself— the apostrophe—" Ah, 
little thought thy reverend grannie !"— the trans- 
port of Tam, who foi-gets his situation, and enters 
completely into the spirit of the scene, are all fea- 
tures of high merit, in this excellent composition. 
The only fault it possesses, is, that the winding up, 
or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate to 
the interest which is excited by the descriptive 
and characteristic jjainting of the preceding parts. 
—The preparation is fine, but the result is not 
adequate. But for this perhaps you have a good 
apology— you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and feel 
a little relieved of the weight of that debt I owed 
you, let me end this desultory scroll by an advice: 
—You have proved your talent for a species of 
composition, in which but a very few of our own 
poets have succeeded.— Go on— write more tales in 
the same style— you will eclipse Prior and La 
Fontaine ; foi*, with equal wit, equal power of 
numbers, and equal naivety of expression, you have 
a bolder and more vigorous imagination. 
I am, dear sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



* Our bard profited by Mr. Tyller's criticism, 
and expunged the four lines accordingly. See Ap' 
pcndix to focms. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



203 



No CV. 



To A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Sir, 

Nothing- less than the unfortunate accident I 
have met with, could have prevented my grateful 
acknowledgments for your letter. His own fa- 
vourite poem, and that an essay in a walk of the 
muses entirely new to him, where, consequently, 
his hopes and fears were on the most anxious alarm 
for his success in the attempt ; to have tliat poem 
so much applauded by one of the first judges, was 
the most delicious vibration thai ever trilled along 
the heart-strings of a poor poet. However, Pro- 
vidence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil 
•with the good, wliich it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, thought proper to check my ex- 
ultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or 
two after 1 received your letter, my horse came 
down with me and broke my right arm. As this 
is the first service my arm has done me since its 
disaster, I find myself unable to do more than j ust 
in general terms to thank you for this additional 
instance of your patronage and friendship. As to 
the faults you detected in the piece, they are tru- 
ly there : one of them, the hit at the lawyer and 
priest, I shall cut out ; as to the falling oflTin the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, it 
cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, sir, 
has given me such additional spirits to persevere 
in this species of poetic composition, that I am al- 
ready revohing two or three stories in my fancy. 
If I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring J'ou how much I have the 
honour to be. 8tc. 



a new light. How far I have succeeded as to this 
last, you will judge from what follows— 

(Here folloivs the elegy, &c. as ii} page 201, add- 
ing this verse.) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and cave ; 

So deCKt tlu; woodbine sweet yon agtd tree, 
So fi-om It ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kii'd letter, with your kind remembrance 
of your godson, came safe. This last, madam, is 
scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the little 
fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy 1 have 
of a long time seen. He is now seventeen months 
old, has the small-pox and measles over, has cut 
several teeth, and yet never had a grain of doc- 
tor's drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little flow- 
eret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the 
" mother-plant" is rather recovering her drooping 
head. Soon and well may her " cruel wounds" be 
healed ! I have written thus far with a good deal 
of difficulty. When I get a little abler you shall 
hear farther from, 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CVII. 

To LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

AcknoTvledging a present of a valuable snuff-box, 
with a fine picture of Mary Qiieen of Scots on 
the lid. 



No. CVL 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 7th February, 1791. 

When I tell j'ou, madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been a 
cripple some time, and that this is the first day my 
arm and hand have been able to serve me in writ- 
ing ; you will allow that it is too good an apology 
for my seemingly ungratefiil silence. I am now 
getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, 
vhich implies some tolerable ease ; as I cannot 
think that the most poetic genius is able to com- 
pose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an eUgy on the 
late miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the honour 
of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have 
seldom felt so much at the loss of an acquaintance, 
as when I heard that so amiable and accomplish- 
ed a piece of God's works was no more. I have, 
as yet, gone no farther than the folJowii:g frag- 
ment, of wliich please let me have jour opinion. 
You know that elegj^ is a subject so much exhaust- 
ed, that any new idea on the business is not to be 
expected : 'tis well if we can place an old idea in 



My lady. 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of hav- 
ing lately broken my right arm, could have pre- 
vented me, the moment I received your ladyship's 
elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you 
my warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. 
I assui-e your ladyship, I shall set it apart : the 
symbols of religion shall only be more sacred. In 
the moment of portic composition, the box shall 
be my inspiring genius. When I would breathe 
the comprehensive wish of benevolence for the 
happiness of Oihers, I shall recollect your lady- 
ship ; when I would interest my fancy in the dis- 
tresses incident to humanity, I shall remember the 
unfortunate Mai-j'. 



No. CVIII. 

To Mrs. GRAHAM, of FINTRY, 

Madam, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, queen 
of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a 
poet, or whether I have, in the inclosed ballad, suc- 
ceeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know 
not ; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of 
my muse for a good while past ; on that account 



20i 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



I inclose it particularly to j'^ou. It is true, the 
purity of my motives may be suspected. I am 
already detply indebted to Mr. G 's good- 
ness ; and what, in the usual n-ays of men, is of in- 
finitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do me 
service of the utmost importance in time to come. 
I was bom a poor dog ; and, however I may oc- 
casionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I 
know I must live aiid die poor : but I will indulge 
the flattering faith that my poetry will considera- 
bly outlive my poverty ; and withbut any fustian 
affectation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that 
it must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall 
ever make me do any thing injurious to the honest 
fame of the fonner. Whatever may be my fail- 
ings, for failings ai-e a part of human nature, may 
they ever be those of a generous heart, and an in- 
dependent mind ! It is no fault of mine that I 
ivas bom to dependence ; nor is it Mr. G— — — 's 
chiefest praise that he can command influence ; 
but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a 
gentleman ; and I trust it shall be mine, to re- 
ceive with thankfulness and remember with undi- 
minished gratitude. 



May I just add, that Micliael Bruce is one, iu 
whose company, from liis past appearance, you 
would not, I am convinced, blush to be found ; and 
as I w ould submit every line of his that should now 
be published, to your own criticisms, you would be 
assui'ed that nothing derogatoi"y either to him or 
you, would be admitted in that appearance he may- 
make in future. 

You have ali-eady paid an honourable tribute to 
kindred genius, in Fergusson— I fondly hope that 
the mother of Bruce will experience your patro» 
nage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers circulat- 
ed by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth-day ; wliich 
I understand some friends in Scotland talk this 
year of observing— at that time it will be i-esolved, 
I imagine, to place a plain, bumble stone over his 
grave. This at least I trust you will agree to do 
—to furnish, in a few couplets, an inscription for 
it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as ear- 
ly as possible ; a short delay might disappoint us 
in procuring that relief to the mother, which is 
the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under co- 
ver to the duke of Athole, London. 



No. CIX. 
From the REVEREND G. BAIRD. 

Sir, London, 8th February. 1791. 

I trouble you with this letter to inform you that 
I am ii! hopes of being able very soon to bring to 
the pres^ a new edition (long since talked of) of 
Michael Bruce^s Poems, The profits of the edi- 
tion are to go to his mother— a wojnan of eighty 
years of age— poor and helpless. The poems are 
to be published by subscription ; and it may be 
possible, I think, to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. vo- 
lume, with the assistance of a few hitherto unpub- 
lished verses, which I have got from the mother 
of the poet. 

Biit tht design I have in view in writing to you, 
is not merely to inform you of these facts, it is to 
solicit the aid of your name and pen in support 
of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce is al- 
ready high with every reader of chissical taste, 
and I shi-U be anxious to guard against tarnish- 
ing his character, by allowing any new poems to 
appear that may lower it. For this purpose, the 
MSS. I am in possession of, have been submitted 
to the revision of some, whose critical talents I 
can trust to, and I mean still to submit them to 
othi-rs. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will take 
the trouble of perusing the MSS.— of giving your 
opinion, and suggestii.g what curtailments, altera- 
tions, or amendments, occur to \ou as advisable? 
And will you allow us to let it be known, that a 
few liJits by you will be added to the volume ? 

I know the extent of this request. It is bold 
to i.iake it. But I have this consolation, that 
though you see it proper to refuse it, you will not 
blamt nie for hiiving made it; you will see my 
apology in the ntotivc. 



P. S. Have you ever seen an engra\Ting pub- 
lished here some time ago from one of your po- 
ems, " thou pale orb /" If you have not, I shall 
have the pleasure of sending it to you. 



No. ex. 
To the REVEREND G. BAIRD. 

In ansrver to the foregoing. 

Why did you, my dear sir, write to me in such 
a hesitating style, on the business of poor Bruce ? 
Don't I know, and have I not felt, the many ills, 
the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is heir to ? You 
shall have your choice of all the unpublished po- 
ems I have ; and had your letter had my direction 
so as to have reached me sooner (it only came to 
my hand this moment), I should have directly put 
you out of suspense on the sul-jeet. I only ask, 
that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as 
well as in the subscription bills, may bear, that 
the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's 
niother. I would not put it in the power of igno- 
rance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I 
clubbed a share in the work from mercenary mo- 
tives. Nor need you give me credit for any re- 
markable generosity in my part of the business. 
I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings follies, 
and backslidings (any body but myself might, per- 
haps, give some of them a worse appellation) tliat 
by way of some balance, however tiifling, in the 
account, I am fain to do any good that occurs iu 
my very limited powtr to a fellow creature, just 
for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the ^is- 
ta of retrospection. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



205 



'No. CXI. 
To Di-. MOORE. 

EUisland, 2%th February, 1791. 

1 do not know, sir, whether you are a subscri- 
lier to Grose^- Antiquities of Scotland. If you are, 
the inclosed poem will not be altogether new to 
you. Captain Grose did me the favour to seud 
me a dozen copies of the proof-sheet, of which 
this is one. Should you have r^ad the piece be- 
fore, still this will answer the principal end I have 
in view : it will give me another opportunity of 
thanking you for all your goodness to the rustic 
bard ; and also of shewing- you, that tlie abilities 
you have been pleased to commend and patronize 
are still employed in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on captain Hejiderso7i, is a tribute to 
the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have 
in this the same advantage as Roman catholics ; 
they can be of service to their friends after they 
have past that bourne where all other kindness 
ceases to be of any avail. Whether, after all, eith- 
er the one or the other be of any real sei-\'ice to 
the dead, is, I fear, very problematical ; but I am 
sure they are highly gratifyi^ig to the living : and 
as a very orthodox text, I forgot where in scrip- 
ture, says, " whatsoever is not of faith, is sin ;" so 
say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and 
is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed 
by his creatures with thankful delight. As al- 
most all my religious tenets originate from my 
heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea, 
that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly be- 
loved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on queen Mary was begun while I 
■was busy with Percy''s Reliques of English Poetry. 
By the way, how much is every honest heart, 
whicii has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, ob- 
liged to you for your glorious story of Buchanan 
and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof of your 
loyal gallantry of soul, giving Tai-ge the victory. 
I should have been mortified to the ground if you 
had not. 



I liave just read over, once more of many times, 
your Zcluco. I marked with my pencil, as I went 
along, every passage that pleased me particularly 
above the rest ; and one or two, I think, which, 
•with humble deference, I am disposed to think un- 
equal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes 
thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at 
least so much of them as to point where they are, 
and send them to you. Original strokes that 
strongly depict the human heart, is your and Field- 
ing's province, beyond any other novelist I have 
ever perused. Richardson, indeed, might perhaps 
be excepted ; but, unhappily, his dramatis pcrso- 
nm are beings of some other world ; and, however 
they may captivate the unexperit need, romantic 
fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in pro- 
portion as we have made human nature our sludj^, 
dissatisfy our riper minds. 



As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked ou the 
list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet em- 
ployed as such, but in a few years I shall fall into 
the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had 
an immense loss in the death of the earl of Glen- 
cairn ; the patron from whom all my fauie and 
good fortune took its i"isc. Independent of ray 
grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so 
strong tiiat it pervaded my very soul, and w.'s en- 
twined with the thread of my existence ; so soon 
as the prince's friends had got in (and every Jog 
you know has his day) my getting forward ii. the 
excise would have been an easier business than 
otherwise it will be. Though this was a consum- 
mation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank heaven, 
I can live and rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, 
poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on as 
high an elevation in life as I could wish, I shall, 
if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of events 
as to see that period, fix them on as broad and in- 
dependent a basis as possible. Among the many- 
wise adages which have been ti-easured up by our 
Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, better be 
tlifi head o' the commonalty, as the tail o' the gen- 
try. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however in- 
teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence 
to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on tlie 
other page, and close this with assurijig you how 
sincerely I have the honour to be, yours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very young lady, whom I had for- 
merl) characterised under the denomination of 
Tlie Rose-bud, (See Poems.) 



No. CXIL 

From Dr. MOORE. 

Dear sir, London, 29th March, 1791. 

Your letter of the 28 ih of February I received 
only two days ago, and this day I had the pleasure 
of waiting on the reverend Mr. Baird, at the duke 
of Athole's, who had been so obliging as to trans- 
mit it to me, with the printed verses on Alloa 
Church, the Elegy on captain Henderson, ar.d the 
Epitaph. There are many poetical beauties in the 
former : what I particularly admire are the three 
striking similes from 



' Or like the snow falls in the 



river," 



and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford*,"^ 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im- 
pressions of the country. And the twenty-two 
lines from 

* See Poems, 



306 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



" Coffins stood round like open presses," 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingredients 
of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it consists in 
the very graphical description of the objects be- 
longing to the country in which the poet writes, 
and which none but a Scottish poet could have de- 
scribed, and none but a real poet, and a close ob- 
server of nature, could have so described. 



• «««•« 

There is something original and to me wonder- 
fully pleasing in the Epitaph. 

I remember you once hinted before, what you 
repeat in your last, that you had made some re- 
marks on Zeluco, on the margin. I should be ve- 
ry g^ad to see them, and regret you did not send 
Xhem before the last edition, which is just publish- 
ed. Pray transcribe them for me ; I sincerely va- 
lue your opinion very higlily, and pray do not sup- 
press one of those in which you censure the senti- 
ment or expression. Trust me it will break no 
squares between us — I am not akin to the bishop 
of Grenada. * 

I must now mention what has been on my mind 
for some time ; I cannot help thinking you impru- 
dent, in scattering abroad so many copies of your 
verses. It is most natui-al to give a few to confi- 
dential friends, particularly to those who are con- 
nected with the subject, or who are perhaps them- 
selves the subject, but this ought to be done under 
promise not to give other copies. Of the poem 
you sent me on queen Mary, I refused every soli- 
citation for copies, but I lately saw it in a news- 
paper. My motive for cautioning you on this sub- 
ject, is, that I wish to engage you to collect all 
your fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to tlie 
utmost of your power, I would have you publish 
them by another subscription : in promoting of 
■which I will exert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you would 
use the mi dern English. You have shewn your 
powei-s in Scottish sufficiently. Although in cei*- 
tain subjects it gives additional zest to the humour, 
yet It is lost to the English ; and why should you 
write only for a part of the island, when you can 
comn\and the admiration of the whole ? 

If you cliance to wiite to my friend Mrs. Dun- 
lop, of Dunlop, I beg to be affectienately remem- 
bered to her. She must not judge of the warmth 
of my s.ntiments respecting her, by the number 
of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line but on 
busintss ; and 1 do not know that I should have 
scribbled all this to you, but for the business part, 
that is, to instigate you to a new publication ; and 
to tell you, that when you think you have a suffi- 
cient number to make a volume, ^you should set 
your friends on getting subscriptions. I wish I 
could have a few hours conversation with you— I 
have many things to say, which I cannot write. If 
I ever go to Scotland, I will let you know, that 
you niay meet me at your own house, or my friend 
Mrs. Hamilton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear sir, Stc. 



No. CXIII. 
To the REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, l4th February, 1791. 

Sir, 

You must, by this tiine, have set me down as 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did me 
the honour to present me with a book which does 
honour to science and the intellectual powers of 
man, and I have not even so much as acknowledg- 
ed the receipt of it. The fact is. you yourself are 
to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your tell- 
ing me that you wished to have my opinion of the 
work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who 
knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over 
tlie performance with the look-out of a critic, and 
to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of stric- 
tures, on a composition, of which, in fact, until I 
read the book, I did not even know the first prin- 
ciples. I own, sir, that, at first glance, several of 
your propositions startled me as paradoxical. That 
the martial clangour of a trumpet had something 
in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than 
the twingle twangle of a jews-harp ; that the deli- 
cate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was in- 
finitely more beautiful and elegant than the up- 
right stub of a burdock ; a^nd that from something 
innate and independent of all association of ideas ; 
—these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox 
truths, until perusing your book siiook my faith. 
In short, sir, except Euclid's Elements of Geome- 
try, which I made a shift to unravel by my father's 
fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season 
I held the plough, 1 never read a book which gave 
me such a quantum of information, and added so 
much to my stock of ideas, as your '• Essays on the 
Frincijdes of Taste.'''' One thing, sir, you must 
forgive my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- 
sti-act philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in tenns ; but you 
have convinced me that they are quite compati- 
ble. 

I inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late 
composition. The one in print is my first essay 
in the way of telling a tale. 
I am, sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

I2th March, 1791, 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures 
let me have them. For my own part, a thing that 
1 have just composed, always appears through a 
double portion of that partial medium in which an 
author will ever riew his own works. I believe, 
in general, novelty has sometliing in it that inebri- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE* 



307 



ates ihc fancy, and not unfreqiiently dissipates 
and finnes away like other intoxication, and leaves 
tlie poor patient, as usual, with an aching heart. 
A striking instance of this might be adduced, in 
the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. 
But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so saciilegi- 
ously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I 
sliall fill up the page in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, which 
will appear pei-haps in Johnston's work, as well as 
the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There''U 
never be peace Hill Jamie comes haine. When po- 
litical combustion erases to be the object of prm- 
ces and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the 
lawful pi-ey of historians and poets. 



'By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down caine— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We dare na' weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

biame— 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 

And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yerd : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame— 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows rae down, 
Sin' 1 tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But 'till my last moment my words are the same, 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear iViend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms of 
your delightful voice, you would give my honest 
eft'usion to "the memory of joys that are past," to 
the few friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on till 1 hear the clock has 
Jntiniated the near approach of 

'^ That hour o' night's black arch the key-staue."— 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and 
delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you 
like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on 
the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

Tor far in the west, is he I lo'e best. 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 



No. CXV. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Ellislnnd, lUh April, 179 Ir 
I am once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered— joy and sorrow— for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, but not so 
handsome as your godson was at his time of life. 
Indeed I look on jour little namesake to be my 
chef (Tarnvre in that species of manufacture, as f 
look on Tarn o' Siianter to be my standard perfor- 
mance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the 
one and the other discover a spice of roguish wag- 
gery, that might, perhaps, be as well s])ai-ed ; but 
then they also shew, in my opinion, a force of ge- 
nius, and a finishing polish, that I despair of ever 
excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and 
laid as lustily about her to day at breakfast, as a 
reaper from the corn ridge. That is the peculiar 
privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly dam- 
sels, that are bred among the haij and heather. 
We cannot hope for that highly polished mind, 
that charming delicacy of soul, which is found 
among the female world in the more elevated sta- 
tions of life, and which is certainly by far the most 
bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that, 
where it can be had in its native heavenly purity, 
unstained by some one or other of the many 
shades of affectation, and unallayed by some one 
or other of the many species of caprice, I declare 
to heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased at 
the expence of every other earthly good ! But as this 
angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in 
any station and rank of life, and totally denied to 
such an humble one as mine ; we meaner mortals 
must put up with the next rank of female excel- 
lence—as fine a figure and face we can produce as 
any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; 
unaffected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's 
mother-wit, and the rudiinents of taste ; a simpli- 
city of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquaint- 
ed with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, 
disingenuous world ; and the dearest charm of all 
the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a 
generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on 
our part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a sound, 
vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can 
scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of 
lovely woman in my humble walk of life. 

This is the gi-eatest effort my broken arm has 
yet made. Do, let me hear, by first post, hovr 
cher petit monsieur comes oji with his small-pox. 
May almighty goodness preserve and restox-e him ! 



No. CXVI. 



To 



Good night, once more, and God bless you. 



Dear sir, 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you 
long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the most in 



208 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



dolent of all liuman beings ; and when I matricu- 
late in the herald's office, 1 intend that my sup- 
porters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow-worm, 
and the motto " Deil tak the foremost." So much 
by way of apology for not thanking you sooner 
for your kind execution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem •, but somehow 
or other it found its way into the public papers, 
where you must have seen it. 



I am ever, dear sir, yours sincerely, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXVII. 

To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

nth June, 1791, 
Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in 
liehalf of the g. utleman who waits on you with 
this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal 
schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering se- 
verely under the ****** of one or two power- 
ful individuals of his employei-s. He is accused of 
harshness to * * » * iJiat were placed under his 
cai-e. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibili- 
ty and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, when 
a booby father presents him with his booby son, 
and insists on lighting up the rays of science, in 
a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and in- 
accessible by any other way than a positive frac- 
ture with a cudgel : a fellow whom in fact it sa- 
Tours of impitty to attempt making a scholar of, 
as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of 
fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the ministers, 
magistrates, and town-council of Edinburgh, and 
as the business comes now before them, let me beg 
my dearest friend to do every thing in his power 
to serve the intei-ests of a man of genius and worth, 
and a man whom I particularly respt ct and es- 
teem. You know some good fellows among the 
magistracy and council, ******* 
**** * * ** but particularly you 
have much to say with a reverend gentleman, to 
whom you have the honour of being very neai-ly 
related, and whom this country and age have had 
the honour to produce, I need not name the his- 
torian of Charles V.* I tell him through the me- 
Aimn of his nephew's influence, that M;-. Clarke 
is a gentleman who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. I know the merits of the cause thorough- 
ly, and say it that my friend is falling a sacrifice 
to prejudiced ignorance, and *******. God 
help the childi'en of dependence i Hated and per- 
secuted by their enenuv s, and too often, alas ! al- 
most UMexceptionably received by their friends with 
disrtspirct and reproach, under the thin disguise of 
cold civility and humiliating advice. O to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his indepen- 
dence, amid the solitary wiids of his desarts, ra- 
ther than in civilized life, helplessl) to tremble 

* Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr, Cunningham. 

E. 



for a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of A 
fellow-ci-eatuiv ! Every man has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings ; and curse on that 
privileged plain dealing of friendship, which, in 
tie hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the 
lit 1 ping hand, without at the same lime pointing 
out those failings, and apportioning them their 
share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye 
thii.k yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you 
please, but do, also, spare my follies : the first will 
witness in my bitast for themselves, and the last 
will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind with- 
out you. And, since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be in- 
cident to human nature, do thou, fortune, put it 
in my power, always from mystlf, and of myself, 
to bear the consequences of those errors. I do not 
want to be iiidependent that I may sin, but I want 
to be independent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the subject 
I set out with, let me recommend my friend, Mr» 
Clarke, to your acquaintance and good offices : his 
worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude 
will merit the other. I long much to hear from 
you. Adieu ! 



No. CXVIIL 

From THE EARL of BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, nth June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Ednam Hill on the 22d of Sep- 
tember ; for which day perhaps his muse may in- 
spire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. 
Burns should, leaving the Nith,go across the coun- 
try, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from 
his farm— and, wandering along the pastoral banks 
of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration 
on the devious walk, till he finds lord Buchan sit- 
ting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the com- 
meiidator will give him a htarty welcome, anil try- 
to light his lamp at the pure name of native ge- 
nius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. This 
poetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a thought 
of the late sir Gilbert Elliot's, and of lord Minto's, 
followed out by his accomplished grandson, the 
present sir Gilbert, who having been with lord 
Buchan lately, the project was renewed, and will^ 
they hope, be executed in the manner proposed. 

No. CXIX. 

To THE EARL of BUCHAN. 

My lord. 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- 
ings when I would thank your lordship for the 
honour you have done me in inviting me to make 
one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In 
my first enthusiasm in reading the card you did 
me the honour to write me, I overlooked every 
obstacle, and determiiied to ^o ; but I fear it will 
not be in my power. A week or two's absence, in 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE; 



S0.9 



the very middle of my hai*vest, is what I inucli 
donhi I ciare not venture on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : 
but wlio would write after Collins? I read over 
his verses to the memory of Thomson, and des- 
paired.— I g;ot indeed to the length of three or 
four stanzas, in the way oi" address to the shade of 
the bard, on crowuing; his bust. I shall trouble 
your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, 
which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing a 
proof, how uneqiial 1 am to the task. However, 
it affords jue an opportunity of aiiproaching: your 
lordship, and declaring how sincerely and grate- 
fully I have the lionour to be, &c. 



No. CXX. 
From THE SAJNIE. 

Sir, Drrjbnrgh Abbey, Uth Sept. 1791. 

Your address to the shade of I'homson has been 
well received by the public ; and though I should 
disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to ride with 
you oif the field of your honourable and useful 
profession, yet 1 cannot resist an impulse which I 
feel at this moment, to suggest to your muse Har- 
vest Home, as an excellent subject for her grateful 
song, in which the peculiar aspect and manners of 
our country, might furnish an excellent portrait 
and landscape of Scotland, for the employment of 
happy moments of leisure and recess, from your 
more important occupations. 

Your Hallorveefi, and Saturday Night, will re- 
main to distant posterity as interesting pictures 
of rural innocence and happiness in your native 
country, and were happily written in the dialect 
of the people ; but Harvest Home being suited to 
descriptive poetry, except where colloquial, may 
escape the disguise of a dialect which admits of 
no elegance or dignity of expression. Without 
the assistance of any god or goddess, and without 
the invocation of any foreign muse, you may con- 
vey, in epistolary form, the description of a scene 
so gladdening and picturesque, with all the con- 
comitant local i)()sition, landscape, and costume, 
contrasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 
of the borders of the once hostile nations of Bri- 
tain, with their former oppression and misery, and 
showing, in lively and beautiful colours, the beau- 
ties and joys of a rural life. And as the unvitiated 
heart is naturally disposed to overflow in gratitude 
in the mom- nt of jjrosperity, such a subject would 
furnish you with an amiable opportunity of per- 
petuating the names of Glencaini, Miller, and your 
other eminent benefactors ; which, from what I 
know of your spirit, and have seen of your poems 
and letters, will not deviate from the chastity of 
praise, that is so uniformly united to true taste 
and genius. 

I am, sir, &c. 



No. CXXI. 

To LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

^ly lady, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- 



ing you any thing I compose in my poetical way ; 
but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my 
irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute 
to my late benefactor, I determined to juake that 
the first jiiice I should do myself the honour of 
sending jou. Had the wing of my faiiCy been 
equal to the ardour of my heart, the inclosed had 
been much more worthy your perusal : as it is, I 
beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's feet. As all 
the world knows my obligations to the late < arlof 
Glencairn, I would wish to shew as openly that 
my lieart glows, and shall ever glow, with the most 
grattful sense and remembrance of his lordship's 
goodness. 'Ihe sables I did myself the honour to 
wear to his lordsliip's memory, were not the 
" mockery of woe." Nor sliall my gratitmle perish 
with me !— If, among my children, I shall have a 
son that lias a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
child as a family honour, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the uoble house of 
Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see tire light, I would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world*. 



* * * * 



No. CXXII. 



To Mr. AINSLIE. 



My dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased? can you, 
amid the horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, 

head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who has 
been guilty of the sin of drunkenness— can you 
speak i)eace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable .'lerdii that I am, I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up 
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick 
of the clock, as it slowly— slowly, numbers over 
these lazy scoundrels of hours, w ho, d— n th<'m, are 
ranked up befoi'e me, every one at his neighbour's 
backside, and every one with a burthen of auguisU 
on his back, to pour on my devoted head — and there 
is none to pity me. My Mife scolds me ! my busi- 
ness torments me, and my sins come staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter tale than 
his fellow.— When I tell you even * * * has lost 
its power to please, you will guess something of 
my hell within, and all around me— I began Eli- 
banks and EHbraes, but the stanzas fell tmenjoyed 
and unfinished from my listless tongue: at last I 
luckily thought of reading over an old letter of 
yours, that lay by me in my book case, and I fek 
something, for the first time since I opened my 

eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well— I begin 

to breathe a little, since I began to write to you. 
How are jou, and what are you doing? How goes 
Law ? Apropos, for connexion's sake do not ad- 
dress to me supervisor, for that is an honour 1 

* The poem enclosed, is The Lam^itfar Jamec, 

Ear! nf Glencairn, 

Bd E. 



216 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



cannot pretend to— I am on the list, as we call it, 
for a suptrvisor, iD.d will be called out by and bye 
to act as one ; but vit present, I am a simple ganger, 
tho* t'other day I got an appoisitinent to an excise 
division of 25/. per ami, better than the rest. My 
present income, down money is 70/. per ami. 



I have one or two good fellows here, whom you 
rould be glad to kiiow. 



The ballad of The IFhistle, is, in my opinion,, 
truly excellent. The old tradition v.hich you have 
taken up, is the best adapted for a Bacchanalian 
composition of any I huve ever met with, and you 
have done it full justice. In the fii-st place, the 
strokes of wit arise naturally from the subject, 
and are uncommonly happy. For example, 

" The bands gi ew the tighter the more they were 
wet." 

" Cynthia hinted she'd find them next jnorn." 



No. CXXIII. 
From Sir JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Sir, Near Maxjbole, 16th' October, 1791. 

Accept my thanks for your favour, with the La- 
tneut or. the drath of my much esteemed friend, 
and your worthy patron, the perusal of which 
pleasi'd and affected me much. The lines address- 
ed to me are very flattering. 

J liave always thought it most natural to sup- 
post (and a strong argument in favour of a future 
existence), that when we see an honourable ajid 
virtuous man, laboui-ing under bodily infirmities, 
and oppressed by the frowns of fortune in this 
world, that there was a happier state beyond the 
gi'avt. ; w here that worth and honour which were 
neglected here, would meet with their Just reward, 
and where temporal misfortunes would ixceive an 
eternal recompense. Let us ch rish this hope for 
our departed friend ; and moderate our grief for 
that loss we have sustained : knowing that he can- 
not rt turr. to us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife, and, with every 
good w ish for the prosperity of you and your fa- 
mily, believe me at all times. 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXIV. 

From A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Dear sir, Edinburgh, 27th November, 1791. 

You have much reason to blame me for neglect- 
ing till riow^ to acknow ledge the receipt of a most 
agreeable packet, containing The Whistle, a bal- 
lad : and The Lament i which n ached me about 
six weeks ago in London, from win-net I am just 
returned. Your letter was forwarded to me there 
fi-oiii Edinburgh, where, as I observed by the date, 
it had lain for some days. Tliis was an additional 
reason for me to have an wertd it inunediately on 
receiving it ; but the truth was, the bustle of bu- 
siness, engagements, and confusion of ont kind or 
another, in which I found niyst If immersed all the 
time I was in London, absolutely put it out of my 
power. But to have done with apologies, let me 
now endeavour to prove my sell in some degree 
deserving of the very flattering compliment you 
pay me, by giving you at least, ii frank and can- 
did, if it should not be a judicious cnticism, on 
the i>ocms you sent me. 



" Tho' fate said a hero should perish in light. 
So up rose bright Phiebus, and down fell the 
knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in the 
discrimination of your heroes, and in giving each 
the sentiments and language suitable to his cha- 
racter. And lastly, you have much merit in the 
delicacy of the panegyric w Inch y ou have contriv- 
ed to throw on each of the dramalis personw, per- 
fectly appropriate to his character. Thi cojnpli- 
ment to sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly 
fine. In short, this composition, in my opinion, 
does you great honour, and I see not a line or a 
word in it, which I could wish to be altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some expres- 
sions in your letter to me, that you ari more doubt- 
ful with respect to tJie merits of this piece, than 
of the othtr, and I ow n I think you have reason ; 
for although it coi.tains some beautiful stanzas, as 
tl>e first, " The wind blew hollow," &c. the fifth, 
" Ye scatter'd birds ;" tlie thirteenth, •' Awakt thy 
last sad voice," Stc. yet it appears to me faulty 
as a whole, and inferior to several of those you 
have already published in the same strain. My 
principal objectioji lies against the plan of the 
piece. I think it was unnecessary and improper to 
put the lamentatioi! in the mouth of a fictitious 
character an aged bard,— It had been much better 
to have lamented your patron in your own person, 
to have expressed your genuine feelings for his 
loss, and to have spoken the language of nature, 
rather than that of fiction, on the subject. Com- 
pare this with your poem of the same title in your 
printed volume which begins, thou pale orb ! 
and observe what it is that forms the charm of 
that composidoii. It is, that it speaks the lan- 
guage of truLh a)id of nature. The change is, in 
my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, that an 
aged bard has much Kss need of a patron and pro- 
tector, than a young one. I have thus given you, 
with much freedom, my oj)inion of both iht pitces. 
I should have made a very ill return to the com- 
pliment you paid me, if I had given you any other 
than my genuine sentiments. 

It will give n»e great pleasure to hear from you 
when you find li isure, and I beg you will believe 
me evei". dear sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXV. 

To Miss DAVIES. 

It is impossible, madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your joutliful mind 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



f2U 



«an have any idea of tliat moral disease, under 
whioh I unhappily must rank as the chief of sin- 
ners ; ! moan a torpitude of the moral j)o\vers, 
that may be called, a lethargy of conscience.— In 
vain Remorse rears her horrent cr^st. and rouses 
all her snakes : beneath the deadJy-iix; d eye and 
leaden hand of Indolence, their wildest ire is 
charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering 
out the rigours of winter, in the chink, of a ruined 
wall. Notlung Kss, madam, could have made me 
so long neglect your obliging comniands. Indeed 
I had one ajjology — tlic bagatelle was not worth 
presenting, B sides, so strojigly am 1 inter^ sti d 

in miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious bu- 

*iness of life, ahiid its chances and changes, that 
to make her the subject of a silly ballad, is down- 
right mockery of these ardent f elings ; it is like 
an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven i why tliis disparity between 
our wishes and our powers ? Why is the most ge- 
nerous wish to make others bit st, impotent and in- 
ert'ectual— as the idle breeze that crosses th^ path- 
less dtsart? I.i my walks of life, I have met with 
a few people to whom how gladly would I have 
said—" Go, be happy .' I know^ that your hearts 
lii've been wounded by the scorn of the proud, 
vhoin accident has placed above you— or worse 
still, in w hose hancTs are, pi rhaps, placed many of 
tin- Comforts of your life. But there 1 ascend that 
vock. Independence, and look justly down on theii* 
littleness of soul. Make the worthless treml)k un- 
der } our indignation, and the foolish sink before 
I'our contempt ; and large- ly impart that hai)piness 
to olh, rs, w liich, I am certain, will give yourselves 
so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Wbj, dear madam jnust I wake from this de- 
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, 
amid my gejierous enthusiasm, must I find myself 
poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear 
from the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort to 
the friend I love ? — Out upon the world ! say I, 
that its affairs are administered so ill .' They talk 
of reform ; — good Heaven ! what a reform w ould 
I make among the sons, and even thv daugliters of 
jntn I— Down, ijnmediately, should go fools from 
ihe high places where juisbegotten chance has 
perked tliem up, a)id through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native insignificance, 
as the body marches accompanied by its shadow. 
— As for a much more formidable diss, the knaves, 
I am at a loss w hai to do with them : had I a 
vorld, there should not be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I would liberally 
fill *, and I would pour delight on tli^ Iieart that 
could kindly forgive, and generously love. 

Still the inequaliiies of life are, among men, 
comparatively tolerable— but there is a delicacy, a 
tenderness, accompanying every view in which we 
can place lovely woman, that are grated and shock- 
ed at the rude, capricious disti)ictions of fortune. 
Woman is the blood-royal of lift : let thert be 
slight degrees of precedency among theui— iiut let 
them he all sacred.~ Whether this last sentimeut 



be right or wrong', I am not accBuntable ; it is an 
original component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVI. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

El//.,latid, nth December, 1791. 
Many thanks, to you, madam, f(n- your good 
news nsptcting tht little fiuwi-ret and the mother- 
plant. I hope my pot lie prajers have been heard, 
and will be answtr^d up to the warmest sincerity 
of thtir fullest i xtent ; aud then Mrs. Henri will 
find her little darling the n prcsentative of his late 
pannt. in every thijjg but his abridged existei.ce. 
I have just finish, d the follow ing song, which, 
to a lady the desct-ndant of Wallace, and many 
heroes of his truly illustriotis line, and herself the 
mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface 
nor apology. 



Scene— A field of battle— tia.c of the day, evening— 
the woi.uflcd and dying vf ihe ■irtorious army 
ai'e supposed to Join in the following 

SONG OF DKATH. 

Farewell, thou fair day, tliou green earth, and ye 

SKJeS 

Now gay with th broad setting sun; 
Farewell, loves and friendsliips I ye dear, tender 
tii-s, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
Go, frighten the coward Uiid slave; 

Go, teach theiu to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant— he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the w reck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark! 

He lalls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our 
liands. 

Our king and our country to save— 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing s:inds-- 

O, who would not die w ith the brave ! 



The circumstance that gave rise to the foregOr 
ing verses was, looking over w ith a musical friend, 
McDonald's collection of highland airs, 1 was struck 
with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an 
Aoig, or The Song of Death, to the measure of 
which I have adapted in) stairzas. I have of late 
coinpost d two iiY thr I oiher little pieces, whch. 
ere yon fuli-»ii»ed meon, wkose broad impudent 



212 



€tENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



face now stares at old mother earth all night, shrill 
have shrunk iisto a modest crcsceiit, just pL-epiitg 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to tran- 
scribe for you. A dieu je vous commende .' 



No. CXXVII. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however I am glad of 
one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, the po- 
litical blast that threatened my welfai-e is over- 
blown. I have corresponded with commissioner 
Graham, for the board had made me the subjt^ct 
of their animadversions ; and now I have tlie plea- 
sure of informing you, that all is set to rights in 
that quarter. Now as to these informers, may the 

devil be let loose to ■ but hold .' I w as praying 

most fervently in my last sheet, and I must not 
so soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly officious, 
think what mischief they do by their malicious in- 
sinuations indirect impertinence, or thouglitless 
hlabbings ! \^''hat a diffcreiiCkf there is, in intrinsic 
worth, candour, benevolence, generosity, kindness 
— in all the charities and all t'le virtu-s, between 
one class of human beings and another ! For 
instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixvd 
with, in the hospitable hail of D , their ge- 
nerous hearts— their ui.contiiminattd, dignified 
miiids— their iafornied and polished understand- 
ings — what a contrast, when compared — if such 
comparing were not downright sacrilege— with the 
soul of the miscreant who can delibex-ately plot 
the destruction of an honest ma)i hat never of- 
fended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the 
unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prattling 
innocents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe. I liad 
two w orthy fellows dining with nie the other day, 
■^vhen I, with great formality, produced my wliig- 
meleerie cup, and told them that it had been a fa- 
mily-niece among the descendants of sir William 
Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm, that 
they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; 
and by and by, never did jour great ancestor lay 
a Southron more completely to rest, than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this 
is the season of wisliing. May God bless you, my 
dear friend, and bless me, the humblest a3\d sin- 
cerest of your friends, by granting you yet many 
returns of tJie season ! JMay all good things atteiid 
you and yours, wherever they are scattered over 
the earth ! 



No. cxxviir. 

To :Mr. WILLIAM SMELLIE, Printer. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fash- 
ion too. Wliat a task ! to vou— who care no more 



for the herd of animals called young ladies, than 
you do for the herd of ar.imuls called young gen- 
tlemen. To you — wlio despise and detest the group- 
ings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot pain- 
ter that seems industrious to place staring fools 
and ni.prii.cipled knaves in the foreground of his 
picture, while men of sense and honesty are too 
often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, 
who will take this letter to town with her, a)>d send 
it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be 
an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady too 
is a votary of the muses ; and as I think myself 
somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure 
you that her verses, always correct, and often ele- 
gant, are much beyond the cominon run of the 
lady-poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer 
of your book, and hearing me say that I was ac- 
quainted with you, she begged to be known to 
you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to 
our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best 
way was, to desire her near relation, and your in- 
timate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his 
house while she was there ; and lest you might 
think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as 
girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought 
of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. 
To be impartial, however, in ai)preciating the la- 
dy's merits, she has one unlucky failing ; a failing 
wliich you will easily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which very 
much besets yourself :— where she dislikes or de- 
spises^ slie is apt to make no more a seci-et of it, 
than where she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning com- 
pliments of the season, but I will, send you my 
'Avarmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that/</7'- 
titne may never throw yoiw subsistence to the mer- 
cy of a knave, or set your character on the judg- 
meiit of a/yo^; but that, upright, and erect, you 
may walk to an hont st grave, where men of letters 
shall say, here lies a man w ho did honour to sci- 
ence, and men of worth shall say, here lies a ina» 
who did honour to human nature. 



No. CXXIX. 

To Mr. W. NICOL. 

20th Febrvary, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze 
of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of 
many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy jiuddle- 
headed, rattk-headed, wrong-headed, ronnd-headed 
slave indebted to thy super-eminent goodness, that 
from the luminous patli of thy own right-lined 
rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an err- 
ing wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderuigs defy 
all the powers of calculation, from the sijiiple co- 
pulation of units, up to til* hidden mysteries of 
fluxions ! May one feebte ray of that light of wis- 
dom wliich darts from tJiy sensorium, straight as 
the ari'ow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of 
inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may 
he less unwortliy of tlie face and favour of that 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



213 



ftitlier of proverbs and master of maxims, that an- 
tipodt of folly, and mag^iet among; iIk- sages, the 
wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! Tea, 
so be it ! 

For me .' I am a beast, a reptile, and know no- 
thing- ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid the 
fogs of my dulness, and pestileniial fumes of my 
political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad 
through the iron-barrtd lucerne of a pestiferous 
dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a summer sun .' 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when 
shall my name be the quotation of the w ise, and 
my cou).te]<ance be the d< light of the godly, like 
the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills* ? As 
for him, his work- are perfect : never did the pen 
of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou miiTor of purity, when shall the elfine lamp 
of my gliinmcrous understandiiig, purged from 
sensual appetites and gross desires, shine like the 
co]!stollaiioi) of thy int>.lleciual powers ?— As for 
thre, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. 
Never did the unhallowed breath of the pow ers of 
darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute 
the sacred fiame of thy sky-descended and heaven- 
bound desire s ; never did the vapours of impurity 
stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagi- 
nation. O that like thi)ie, were the tenor of my 
life, like thine, the tenor of my conversation ! then 
should no friend fear for my stre.igth. no enemy 
rejoice in my weakness ! Then should I lii do\»n 
and rise up, and none to make me afraid. — .May 
thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality '. thy de- 
voted slavet. 



No. CXXX. 
To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had time to write you farther. When 
I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means, 
that the three demons, indolence, business, ami en- 
nui, ha\-e so completely shared my hours among 
them, as not to leave me a five minutes fragment 
to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shall in 
good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare 
say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I 
must own with too much appearance of truth. 
Apropos, do you know the much admired old high- 
land air called T/te Sutor's Dochter ? It is a first- 
rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I 
reckon one <jf my best songs to it. I will send it 
to you as it was sung with great applause ui some 



* Mr. Nicol. 

t This strain of irony was excited by a letter of 
Mr. Nicel, containing good advice. E. 



fashionable circles by major Robertson, of Ludc, 
who was here with his corx^s. 



There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present 
from a departed friend, which vexes me much. I 
have gotten one of your highland pebbles, which 
I fancy would make a very elecent one ; and I want 
to cut my armorial bearing on it; will you be so 
obliging as inquire what will be the expense of 
such a business ? I do not know that my name is 
matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but I 
have invented arms for myself, so you know I shall 
be chief of the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland^ 
will likewise beejititUd to supporters. These, how- 
ever, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a 
bit of a herald; and shall give you, secundum ar- 
tein, mj arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, 
seeded, projier, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and 
crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in chief. Ofi a 
wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a 
sprig of baj-tree, proper, for crest. Two mot- 
toes ; roui-.d the top of tht' crest. Wood notes 
wild; at the bottom of the shie;ld, in the usual 
])lace. Better a wee bush than nae bield. By the 
shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the non- 
sense of painters of Arcadia ; but a stoctc and 
horn, and a club, such as you see at the head of 
Allan Ramsay, in All;»n's quarto edition of the 
Gentle Shejiherd. By the liye, do you know Allan? 
He must be a man of very great genius.— Why is 
he not more ki own ?— Has he no patrons ? or do 
" Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen 
and heavy" on him ? I once, and but once, got a 
glance of that noble edition of the noblest pasto- 
ral in the world, and. dear as itjwas, I mean, dear 
as to my pocket, I would have bought it ; but I 
V as told that it was printed and engraved for sub- 
scribers only. He is the only artist wlio has hit 
genuine pastoral costume, Wliat, my dear Cun- 
lyngham, is there in riclu s. that they narrow and 
harelen the heart so .' I tliink that were I as rich 
as the sun, I should be as generous as the day ; 
but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a no- 
bler one than any other man's, I must conclude 
that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
would have revolted. What lias led me to this, is 
the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and 
such riches as a nabob or governor contractor pos- 
sesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. 
Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotecte-d merit, 
and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will 
richly repay it. 



No. CXXX I. 

To 3Irs. DUNLOP. 

Ayyaan Wafer Foot, 22d August. 1792.. 
Do not blame me for it, ma«Iam— my oAv n con- 
science, hacknted and weather-be^aten as it is, in 
watching and reproving my ^■agaries, follies, indo- 



214 



GENERAL CO^lRESPONDENCE. 



lence, &c. has continued to blame and punish me 
sufficlemlv. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured 
frit ud, tliat I could bt so lost to gratitude for ma- 
ny favours ; to esteem for much v.orth. and to the 
honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, i.ow. old actjuaint- 
ance, and I hope aiid am sure of progressive in- 
cr^^asinij fiiendsbip— as, for a single day, not to 
think of you— to ask the Fates what they are do- 
ing and about to do with my snuch loved friend 
and her wide-scattered connexions, and to beg of 
them to be as kiiid to \ou and yours as they pos- 
sibly can? 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have not 
leisure to explain), do you know that I am al.nosi 
an lovi- witli an acquaintance of yours '—Almost ! 
said I — I am in love, souse J over head and eai's, 
deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the bound- 
less ocean ; but the word, Love, owing to the ?n- 
ferniingledoius of the good and the bad, the pure 
and tlie impure, in this world, being rather an 
equivocal term for expressing one's sentiments 
and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred pu- 
rity of my altaciunent. Know then, that the heart- 
struck awe ; the distant humble approach ; the de- 
light we should have in gazing upon, and listening 
to a juessenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, among the 
coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deli- 
ver to them tidings that make their hearts swim 
in joy, and their imaginations soar in transj)ort — 
such, so delightiiig, and so pure, were the emo- 
tions of my soul on meeting the other day with 

Miss L— B— , your neigiiboar, at M . Mr. B. 

>vitii his two daughters, acconipanied by Mr. H. of 
G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on 
their way to England, did me the honour of call- 
ing on nie ; on which I took my horse (tliougl) God 
knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied 
them fourth en or fifteen miles, and dined and spent 
tlie day with them. 'Twas about nine, I think, 
when I left them ; and riding home, I composed 
the following ballad, of which you will probably 
think you have a dear bargain, as it will cost you 
anotlier groat of postage. You must know that 
there is an old ballad beginning witli 

" My bonnie Lizie Bailie, 

I'll rowe thee in my plaidie," Sec, 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first c/)py, " unaDointed, unaimealed," as Hamlet 
says.— See p. 94. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone 
to the east country, as I am to be in Ayrshire in 
nbout a fortnight. This world of ours, notwith- 
standing it has many good things in it, yet it has 
evv^r had tliis curse, that two or tiiree people who 
vould be the happier the oftener they met toge- 
getlier, are, almost without exception, always so 
plact d as never to meet but once or twice a year, 
which, considering the few years of a man's life, 
IS a very gnat " evil und< r the sun," which 1 do 
not recollect that Solomon lias mentioned in his 



catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and be* 
lieve that there is a state of existence beyond the 
grave, where the worthy of this life will renew 
their former intimacies, with this endearing addi- 
tion, that " we meet to part no more." 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
V/ill none f you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ?" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to 
the departed sons of men, but not one of them has 
ever thought fit to answer the question. " O that 
some courteous ghost would blab it out !" but it 
caiuiot be ; you and I, my friend, must make the 
experiment by ourselves, and for ourselves. How- 
ever, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in 
the doctrines of religion is not only necessary by 
making us better men, but also by making us hap- 
pier men. that I shall take every care that your 
little godsoii, and every little creature that shaU 
call me father, shall be taught them. 

S(j ends this Iieterogeneous letter, written at this 
wild place of the world, in the intt rvals of my la- 
bour of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua, 



No. CXXXIL 
To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, 10th September, 17P2. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology.— Anud all 
my hurry of business, grinding the laces of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless whetls of 
the excise ; making ballads, and then drinking and 
singing them ; and, over and bove all, the correct- 
ing the press-work of two different publications ; 
still, still I might have stolen five minutes to dedi- 
cate to one of the first of my friends and fellow- 
creatures. I might have done, as I do at present, 
snatched an hour near " witchijig time of night," 
—and seraw led a page or two. I might have con- 
gratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I might 
have thanked the Caledonian archers for the ho- 
nour they have done me (though, to do myself jus- 
tice, I intended to have done both in rhyme, else 
1 had done both, long ere now). Wt- II then, here 
is to J our good health ! for you must know, I have 
set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of 
spell, to keep away the meikle liorned deil, or any • 
of his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ?— " The voice 
said cry," and I said, '' what shall I cry ?"— O, 
tliou spirit ! whatever thou art, or w herever tliou 
makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by the 
eerie side of an auld thoni, in tlie dreary glen 
through which the herd-callan maun bicker in his 
gloumin route frae the fauKle ! — Be thou a brow- 
nie, set. at dead of night, to thy task by the blaz- 
ing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the reper- 
cussions of thy iron Hail half affright thyself, as 
thou p^rformt'st the work of twenty of the sous 
of men, ere the cotk-crowiug sumuion thee to thy 



GENERAL CORRKSPONDENCE. 



215 



anipje co"; of substantial brose.— Be thou a kelpio, 
haijuiiii!^ tlif fbr<l 01- iern-, in the' starless nig'fit, 
mixii.g- thy laiighiijg ytll vxith thf howling of the 
stor.u and thi roariiig' of the tlood, as thou vit-w- 
est tlic- perils and miseries of man ou the founder- 
irig hors>-, or in the tumbling boat !— Or, lastly, be 
thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal \isits to the 
hoary ruins of decayed grands.ur; or pi-rforniing 
tliy lujstic rites in the shadow of tlie tinn -worn 
church, while the moon looks, without a cloud, on 
th. silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around 
thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside of the 
villain, or the murderer, pourtraying on his dream- 
ing fancy, pictures, dreulful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
deity !— Come, tliou spirit, but not in these Jiorrid 
forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy inspira- 
tions, which thou breathest round the wig of a 
prating advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping gos- 
sip, w hile their tongues run at the light-horse gal- 
lop of clish)naclav!.'r for ever and ever— come and 
assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt 
to share half an idea among half a hundred words ; 
to fill up four quarto pages, wliile he has not got 
one single sentence of recollection, information, or 
remark worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated sa bil on 
her three-footed stool, and like her too, labours 
with nonsense.— Nonsense, auspicious name .' Tu- 
tor, friend, and fing^er-post in the mystic mazes of 
law ; the cadaverous paths of plij sic ; and particu- 
larly in the sightless soarings of school divinity, 
who, leaving comnaon sense confounded at liis 
strength of pinion, reason delirious with eying his 
giddy flight, and truth creeping back into the bot- 
tom of her well, cursing the hour that ever she 
«3ered her scorned alliance to the wizard power 
of theologic vision— raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth discord ! a gloom) heaven above, open- 
ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an ines- 
capable and inexorable hell, expanding its k via- 
than jaws for the vast residue of mortals .' I !" — O 
doctrine ! comfortable and healing to thew<ary, 
wounded soul of man ! Ye sons and daughters of 
affliction, ye pauvres misi-rables, to whojn day 
brings no pleasure^ and night yidds no r^st, be 
comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred 
thousand that your situation will mend in this 
world ;" so, alas ' the experience of the poor and 
the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis ninett en hun- 
dred thousand to 07ie, by the dogmas of ****«'«**^ 
that you will be damned eternally iu the world to 
come ! 

But of all nonsense, religious nonsense is the 
most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than enough 
of it. Only, by the bye, will you, or can you tell 
me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn 
of mind has always a tendency to narrow and il- 
liberalize the heart ? They are orderly ; they may 
be just ; nay, I have known them merciful : but 
still your children of sanctity move among their 
fellow creatures with a nostril snufiing putres- 
cence, and a foot spurning filth, in short, with a 
Conceited dignity that vonr titled ■»*»** 



****** or ai>y other of j'onr Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries sta;i<ling. display when 
they accidtntally mix among the many-aproned 
sons of mechuiiical life. I remember, in my 
plough-boy days, I could not conceive it ])Ossihle 
that a noble lord could be a fool^ or a godly man 
could be a knave. — How ignorant are plough-boys ! 
—Nay, I have since discovered Unit a. god lij rvo^ 
man may be a ***** !— But hold— Htre's t'ye again 
—this rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit 
nienstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like, 
tlie married life ? Ah, my friend ! matrimony is 
quite a different thing from what your love-sick 
youths and sighing girls take it to be I But mar- 
riage, we are told, is appointed by God, and I shall 
never quarrel with any of his institutions. I am 
a husband of older standing tlian you, and siiall 
give you my ideas of the coiijugal state (en pas- 
sant ; you kiiow I am no Latinist, is not conjugal 
derived from juguni^ a joke ?), Well then, the 
scale of good wifeship, I divide into ten parts : — 
goodnature, four; good sense, two ; wit, one ; per- 
sonal charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine 
limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a fine waist 
too, but that is so soon spoilt, you know), all these, 
one ; as for the other qualities belonging to, or at- 
tending on a wife, such as fortune, connexions, 
education (I mean education extraordinary), fami- 
ly blood, &c. divide the two remaining degrees 
among them as you please ; only, remember that 
all these minor properties must be expressed by 
fractions, for there is not any one of them, in the 
aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an inte- 
ger. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries— how 

I latt iy met with miss L B , the most 

beautiful, elegant woman in the world— how I ac- 
companied her and her father's family fifteeit 
mill s o)i their journey, out of pure devotion, to 
admire the loveliness of t'le works of God, in such 
an unequalli-d display of them— how, in galloping- 
home at night, I made a ballad on her, of whicU 
these two stan/;as make a part — 

Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, boiuiie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very deil he could na scathe 

What> ver wad bclang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' 

— behold all these things are written in the chro- 
nicles of my imaginations, and shall be read by 
thee, my dear friend, and by thy be loved spouse, 
my other dear friend, at a more convenient sea- 
son. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed bosoni- 
compar.ion, be given the precious things brought 
forth by the sun, and the precious things brought 
forth by the moon, ajid the benignest influences 
of the stars, and the living streams which flow 
from the fountains of life, and by the tree of life., 
for evey aiid ever ! Amen ' 



21S 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. CXXXIII. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24th September, 1792. 

I have tliis moment, my dear madam, yours of 

the twenty-third. All your other kind rejiroaclies, 

your news, &c. are out of my head when I read 

and think on Mrs. H 's situation. Good God ! 

u heart-wounded helpless young woman — in a 
strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed 
^vith every liorror that can harrow the human 
feelings — sick — looking, longing for a comforter, 
but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — but it 
is too juuch : he who wounded (he only can) may 
He heal* ! 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisi- 
tion to his family. ** ****#i 
caiuiot say that I give him joy of liis life as a far- 
mer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscion- 
able rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird farming his 
own property ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and 
reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; 
knowing that none can say unto him, " what dost 
thou .'"—fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks ; 
rejoicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons and 
daughters, until he be the venei-ated, grey-haired 
leader of a little tribe— 'tis a heavenly life ! but 
devil take the life of reaping the fruits that an- 
other must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to 
seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. 1 can- 
not leave Mrs. B , until her nine months race 

is run, which may perhajis be in three or four 
weeks. She, too seems detei'mined to make me 
the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if 
heaven will be so obliging as to Itt me have them 
on the proportion of three boys to one girl, I shall 
be so much the more i>leased. I hope, if I am 
spared with them, to shew a set of boys that will 
do honour to my cares and name ; but I am not 
equal to the task of rearing girh. Besides, I am 
too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. 
Apropos, your little godson is thriving charming- 
ly, but is a very devil. He, though two years 
younger, has completely mastered his brother. Ro- 
bert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever 
saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is 
quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle upon 
a subject dear to our heart: you can excuse it. 
Cod bless you and yours I 



No. CXXXIV. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been -ivritten on the death of Mrs. 
H- — , her daughter. 

I had been from home, and did not receive 
▼our letter until my return the other day. What 

* Tliis much lamented lady was gone to the 
south of France with her infajit son, where she 
tiled soon after. E. 



shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, much- 
afflicted friend ? I cai biii grieve with you ; con- 
solation I have none to offer, except that wliich 
religion holds out to the children of affliction— 
children of affliction !—h.o\f just the expression! 
and, like every other family, they have matters 
among them which they hear, see, and feel in a 
serious, all-important manner, of which the world 
has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world 
looks indifferently on, makes the passing remark, 
and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas ! juadum, who would w ish for many years ! 
What is it but to drag existence until our joys 
gradually expire, and leave us in a night of mise- 
ry : like the gloom which blots out the sUrs one 
by one, from tlie face of night, and leaves us, witli- 
out a ray of comfort, in the howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. \ou shall 
soon hear from me again. 



No. CXXXV. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; and 
if at all possible, 1 shall certainly, my much esteemed 
friend, have the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop- 
house. 

Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness ! I have not pas- 
sed half the ordinixry term of an old jnan's life, 
and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a 
newspaper, that I do uoi see sonxe names that I 
have Known, and which I, and oth. r acquaintances, 
little thought to meet with there so soon. Every 
other instaiice of the mortality of our kind, makes 
us cast an anxious look ir.to the dreadful abyss of 
uncertaiiity, and shudikr with apprehension for 
our oWii fate. But of liow different an iaiportauce 
are the lives of dial- rent individuals ! Nay, of what 
importance is one period of the same life, more 
than ai .other ! A few years ago, I coitld have lain 
dowir in the dust, ''careless of the voice of the 
morning;" and now i.ot a few. and" these most 
helpLss individuals, would, on losing me and my 
exertions, lose both their '•' sta:f and shield." By 
the way, tliese heli)less ones h:ive lately got au ad- 
dition ; Mrs. B having given me a finu girl 

since I wrote you. There is a charming passage 
in Thomson's Edivard and Eleanora, 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from .he same piece, peculiarly, 
alas ! too peculiarly ai)posite, my dear madam, to 
your present frame of mind : 

" Who so unwoi'thy but may proudly deck liim 
With }iis fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'< r the summer main ? the temptst comes. 
The rough winds rage alouii ; when from the helm 
This virtue sh,i"Jnks, and iu a corner lies 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



21Z' 



l-amcnting.— Heavens .♦ if privileged fjom trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you mention 
Thomson's dramas. I jjick up favourite quota- 
tions, and store them in ujy mind as ready ai'mour, 
offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this 
turbulent existence. Of these is one, a favourite 
one, from his Alfred. 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formt rly, as indeed, when I write from the heart, 
1 am apt to be gdilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of the 
iiuagination ; so the notes of the former are ex- 
tremely ajJt to run into one another ; but in re- 
turn for the paucity of its compass, its few notes 
are much more sweet. I must still give you an- 
other quotation, which I am almost sure I have 
given you before, but I cannot resist the tempta- 
tion. The subject is religion— speaking of its 
importance to mankind, the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that sti-eaks our morning 
bright." &c. as in //. 190. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this coun- 
try here, have many alarms of the i-eforming. or 
rather the republican spirit, of your part of the 
kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion 
ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you know ; 
a very humble one indeed, heaven knows, but still 
so much as to gag me. What my private senti- 
ments are, you will find out without an interpre- 
ter. 



Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second right— but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it— 'tis decorum.— 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when i-ough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men— and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manuei-s*. 

For right the third, our last, our best, our dear> 
est. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the rights of kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own— 'tis dear, dear admiration .' 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life— immortal love.— 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares ?— 
When awful beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitu- 
tions, 
With bloody armanents and revolutions ; 
Let majesty your first attention summon. 
Ah .' qa ira ! the majesty of woman .' 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criti- 
cisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CXXXVI. 



To Miss B******, of YORK. 



I have taken up the subject in another view, 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the 
other page, called The Rights of fVoman. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An occasional address spoken bij Miss Fontenelle, 
on her benefit-night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The rights of woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred right of woman is protection.— 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 
Helpless, mu3t fall before the blasts of fj^tf^. 



Madam, 21st March, 1793. 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they nut with any 
body after Uitir own heart, they had a charming 
long prospect of many, many happy meetings with 
them in aftei"-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the 
chapter of accidents, meet an individual whose ac- 
quaintance is a real acquisition, there are all tho 
probabilities against you, that you shall never 
meet with that valued character more. On the 
other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is 
none of the least of the miseries belonging to it^ 
that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or 
creature whom you despise, the ill run of the 
chances shall be so against you, that in the over- 
takings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at 
some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch 
upon you, and will not allow j our indignation or 
contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy 

* Ironical allusiou to the saturnt\li|\ of tlie f ffff* 
donian /iur]t, 

Ee 



21S 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



believer in the powers'of darkness, I take these to 
be the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some kind of 
short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and 
I make no doubt, that he is perfectly acquainted 

with my sentiments, respecting Miss B • ; how 

much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, 
and how very fortunate I thought myself in her 
acquaintance. For this last reason, my deai- ma- 
dam, 1 must entertain no hopes of the very gi-eat 
pleasure of meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a packet 

to you, and I beg leave to send you the inclosed 
sonnet, though to tell you the real truth,, the son- 
net is a mere pretence, that I may have tlie op- 
portunity of declaring with how much respectful 
esteem I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXXVII. 

To Miss C*»**. 

Madam, August, 1793. 

Some rather unlocked for accidents have pre- 
Tented my doing myself the honour of a second 
nsit to Arbeigland, as I was so hospitably invited, 
and so positively meant to have done.— However, 
I still hope to hare that pleasure before the busy 
months of harvest begin. 

I inclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the .pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of captain Riddel. To repay one with 
an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, madam, 
I know, will not allow. What is said of illustrious 
descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for 
poetry : none ever despised it who had pretensions 
to it. The fates and characters of the rhyming 
tribe often employ my thoughts when I am dispos- 
ed to be melancholy. There is not among all the 
niart\Tologies that ever were penned, so rueful a 
narrative as the lives of the poets.— In the cojnpa- 
rative view of wretches, the criterion is not what 
they are doomed to suffer, but how they are form- 
ed to beai-. Take a being of our kind, give him 
a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensi- 
bility, which between them will ever engender a 
more ungoveruable set of passions than are the 
usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible 
impulse to some idle vagary, such as arranging 
wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the 
grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, 
watching the frisks of the little minnows in the 
sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of but- 
terflies—in ^hort, send hun adrift after some pur- 
suit, which shall eternally mislead him from tlie 
paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener 
relish than any man living for the pleasures that 
lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of 
his woes by bestowing on hiin a spuming sense of 
his ^wn dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitcliiug woman ; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of prn^ 



deuce, involving them in difficulties, baiting theni 
with poverty, branding thom with infamy and 
plunging them in tlit whirling vortex of ruin ; 
yet, where is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that 
even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of para- 
disaical bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun» 
rising over a frozen region, compared with the 
many pL-asures, the nameless raptures that we 
owe to the lovely queen of the heart of man ! 



No. C XXXVIII. 
To JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

Sir, December, 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with 
our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high 
compliment in the manner in which I am going to 
apply the remark. I have owed you money longer 
than ever I owed it to any man.— Here is Ker's 
accouiit, and here are six guineas ; and now, I 
don't owe a shilling to man— or woman either. 
But for these daumed dirty, dog's-eared little 
pages*, I had done myself the henour to have 
waited on you long ago. Independent of the ob- 
ligations your hospitality has laid me under ; the 
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself, was fully as much 
as I could ever make head against ; but to owe 
you money too, was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a collec- 
tion of Scots songs I have, for some years, been 
making : I send you a perusal of what I have got 
togetlier. I could not, conveniently, spare them 
above five or six days, and five or six glances of 
them will probably more than suflice you. A ve- 
ry few of them are my own. When you are tir- 
ed of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of 
the king's-arms. There is not another copy of 
the collection in the world; and I should be sorry 
that any unfortunate negligence should deprive 
me of what has cost me a good deal of pains. 



No. CXXXIX. 

To Mrs. R****»*, 

JHio ivas to bespeak a play one evening at the. 
Dumfries theatre. 

I am thinking to send my Address to some pe- 
riodical publication, but it has not got your sanc- 
tion, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my 
dear madam, to give us. The JVonder, A IVoman 
keeps a Secret; to which please add. The Spoilt 
Child— you will highly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah, what an enriable creature you are ! There 
now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are 
going to a party of choice spirits— 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 

* Scottish bank notes. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



219 



Those rapid pictures, lliat assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never joiu'd before, 
Wht-rt lively -wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting htnuour, grsive himself. 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaping every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
4o also remeinl)er to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 



To a LADY, 

In favour of a playcr''s benefit. 

Madam, 

You were so very good as to promise me to ho- 
nour my friend with your presenceon his benefit- 
night. That night is fixed for Friday first ; the 
play a most interesting one : The way to keep hinim 
I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His 
merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He 
has genius and worth which would do honour to 
patronage : he is a poor and modest man ; claims 
which from their very silence have the more for- 
cible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! 
that from the indolence of those, who have the 
good things of this life in their gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the 
rightful due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the author and director of 
Jiature, by far the most enviable is— to be able 
" to wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what 
insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however 
chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go 
to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, 
with hardly the consciousness of having made one 
poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, madam: I came to 
beg, not to preach. 



No. CXLL 
EXTRACT of a LETTER 



be nominated on the collector's list ; and this is 
always a business purely of political patronage, 
A collectorship varies much from better than two 
hundred a year to near a thousand. They also 
come forward by precedency on the list, and have, 
besides a handsome income, a life of complete lei- 
sure. A life of literai'y leisure, with a decent 
competence, is the summit of my wishes. It 
would be the prudish affectation of silly pride in 
me, to say, that I do not need or would not be in- 
debted to a political friend ; at the same time, sir, 
I, by no means, lay my affairs before you thus, to 
hook my dependent situation on your benevolence. 
If, in juy progress of life, an opening should o(y 
cur where the good offices of a gentleman of your 
public character and political consequence might 
bring me forward, I will petition your goodness 
with the same frankness and sincerity as I now do 
myself the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CXLIL 

To Mrs. R*****. 

Dear madam, 

I meant to have called on you yesteniight, but 
as I edged up to your box-door, the first object 
which greeted my view, was one of those lobster- 
coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guard- 
ing the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and 
capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall cer- 
tainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part 
of your box-furniture on I'uesday ; when we may 
arrange the business of the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, inces- 
santly offer at your shrine— a shrine, liow far ex- 
alted above such adoi-ation— permit me, were it 
but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute 
of a w arm heart, and an independent mind ; and 
to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable, and 
most accomplished of thy sex, with the most re- 
spectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c. 



To Mr. 

1794. 
I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr. 
S*** shewed me. At present ray situation in life 
must be, in a great measure, stationary, at least 
for two or three years. The statement is this— I 
am on the supervisor's list ; and as we come on 
there by precedency, in two or three years I shall 
be at the head of that list, and be appointed of 
course— th^n, a friend might be of service to me 
in getting me into a place of the kingdom, which 
I would like. A supervisor's income varies from 
about a hundred and twenty, to two hundfed a 
year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every spe- 
cies of literary pursuit. The moment I am ap- 
pointed supervisor in the common routine, I may 



No. CXLIIL 



To THE SAME. 



I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but 
whether in the morning I am not sure. Sunday 
closes a period of our curst revenue business, and 
may probably keep me employed with my pen un- 
til noon. Fine employment for a poet's pen .' 
There is a species of the human genius that I caH 
flie gin-horse class : what enviable dogs they are J 
Round, and round, and round they go,— Mundell's 
ox, that drives his cotton mill, is their exact pro- 
totype—without an idea or wish beyond their cir- 
cle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and content- 
ed ; while here I sit, altogether Noveuiberish, s, 

d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 

enough of the one to rouse mc to passif>n. nor of 



22.0 



GENERAL CORRESPONDEiCCE. 



the other to repose me in torpor : my soul flounc- 
ing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild 
finch, caught amid the hoiTors of winter, and new- 
ly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that 
it was of me the Hehrv'W sage prophesied, when 
he foi-etold— " And behold, on wliatsoever this man 
doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!" If my 
resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare 
not squeak ; and if— 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
•visitors of R. B. 



No. CXLIV. 
To THE SAME. 



esteem, and prize you, as the most accomplished 
of women, and tlie first of friends— if these are 
crimes, I am the most offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, 7io7v to find cold 
neglect, and contemptuous scorn— is a wrench that 
my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind 
of miserable good luck, that while de haiit en bas 
rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the 
ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn 
something in his bosom, which, though it cannot 
heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate 
to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities ; 
the most sincere esteem, and ardent regard, for 
your gentle heart and amiable manners ; and the 
most fervent wish and praj'er for your welfare, 
peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, madam^ 
your most devoted humble servant. 



I have this moment got the song from S***, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good 
deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him 
any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have 
any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I was 

at W ; and that once froze the very life-blood 

of my heart. Yonr reception of me was such, that 
a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to 
pronounce sentence of death on hiju, could only 
have envied my feelings and situation. But I hate 
the theme, and never moi*e shall write or speak on 
it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. a liigher tribute of esteem, and appre- 
ciate her amiable worth more truly, tlian any man 
vhom I have seen approach her. 



No. CXLV. 
To THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, that you 
had a spice of caprice in your composition, and 
you have as often disavowed it ; even, perhaps, 
while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefra- 
gably proving it. Could aiiy thing estrange me 
from a friend such as jou ?— No ! to-morrow I shall 
have the honour of waiting on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accom- 
plished of women ; even with all thy little capri- 
ces ! 



No. CXLVII. 

To JOHN SYME, Esq. 

You know that among other high dignities, you 
have the lionour to be my supreme court of criti- 
cal judicature, from which tliere is no appeal. I 
inclose you a song which I composed since I saw 
you, and I am going to give you the history of it. 
Do you know that among much that I admire in 
the characters and manners of those great folks 
w hom I have now the honour to call my acquain- 
tances, the O***** family, there is nothing charms 
me more than Mr. O.'s unconcealable attachment 
to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, my 
dear Syme, meet with a man, who owed more to 
the divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. ? 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright 
mind, and that informed too, much beyond the 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune : and to all this, such a woman .'—but of her 
I shall say nothing at all, in despair of sajing any 
thing adequate : in my song, I have endeavoured 
to do justice to what would be his feelings, on see- 
ing in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of 
his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my 
performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of 

sending it to Mrs. O , but, on second thoughts, 

perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of ge- 
nuine respect, might, from the well-known charac- 
ter of ijoverty and poetry, be construed into some 
modification or other of that servility which my 
soul abhors*. 



No. CXLVI. 



To THE SAME. 



Madam, 

I return your common-place book. I have pe- 
rused it with much pleasure, and would have con- 
tinued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has 
forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose 
their value. 

If it is true tliat " offences come only from the 
heart," before 30U I am guiltless. To admire. 



No. CXLVIII. 

To Miss 

Madam, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with this letteV. 



* The song inclosed was that beginning, 

wat ye ifAa'^ in yon town ? E. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



221 



Except my arient and just esteem for your sense, 
taste, and worth, evei-y sentiment arising in my 
breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is painful. 
The scenes I have past with the friend of my 
soul, and his amiable connexions ! the wreucli at 
my heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone 
from me, never more to meet in the wanderings 
of a wearj' world ! and the cutting reflection of 
all, that I had most unfortunately, though most 
undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of 
worth, ere it took its flight ! 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However you, also, may be oft'ended with 
some imputed improprieties of mine ; sensibility 
you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny 
me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this letter. 
Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to wage. 
The powers of positive vice I can in some degree 
calculate, and against direct malevolence I can be 
Oil my guard ; but who can estimate the fatuity 
of giddy caprice, or ward off" the unthinking mis- 
chief of precipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you, madam ; and 

of your sister Mrs. , through your means. 

Yo»i know that, at the wish of my late friend, I 
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which 
I had ever wi'itten. They are many of them lo- 
cal, some of them puerile and silly, and all of them 
unfit for the public eye. As I have some little 
fame at stake, a fame that. I trust, may live, when 
the hate of those, who " watch for my halting," 
and the contumelious sneer of those, vhom acci- 
dent has made my superiors, will, with themselves, 
be gone to the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy 
now for the fate of those manuscripts.— Will Mrs. 

have the goodness to destroy them, or return 

them to me ? As a pledge of friendship they were 
bestowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit 

they no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs. 

goodness, which I well know, and ever will revei-e, 
will not refuse this favour to a man Mhom she 
once held in som« degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the ttonour to 
be. madam, fee. 



No. CXLIX. 

To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? Canst 
thou speak peace and rest to a soul, tost on a sea 
of troubles, witliout one friendly star to guide her 
course, and dreading that the next surge may over- 
whelm her .' Canst thou give to a frame, trem- 
blingly alive as the tortures of suspence, the sta- 
bility and hardihood of the rock that braves the 
blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy 
inquiries after me ? 



For these two mcJnths I liavc not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hy- 
pochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late 
a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuni- 
ary share in the ruin of these ***** times ; losses, 
which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill 
bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings, at 
times, could only be envied by a reprobate spirit 
listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdi- 
tion. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I have exhausted in i-eflection every topic of com- 
fort, yl heart at ease would have been channed 
with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to my- 
self, 1 was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gos- 
pel ; he might melt and mould the hearts of those 
around him, but his own kept its native incorrigi- 
bility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up,, 
amid the wreck of misfortune and miserj-. The 
otie is composed of the different modifications of a 
certain noble, stubborn something in man, known 
by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. 
The other is made up of those feelings and senti- 
ments, M'hich, however the sceptic may deny them, 
or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am con- 
vinced, original and comi>onent parts of the hu- 
man soul ; those senses of the mind, if I may be 
allowed the expression, which conjiect us with, and 
link'us to, those awful obscure realities— an all- 
powerful and equally beneficent God ; and a world 
to come, beyond death and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field ;— the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wounds which time can never 
cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that 
you and I ever talked on the subject of religion 
at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick 
of the crafty /ett', to lead tlie undiscerning ?nany ; 
or, at most, as an uncertain obscurity, which man- 
kind caji never kiiow any thing of, and with 
which they are fools if they give themselves much 
to do» Nor would I quarrel with a man for his 
iiTeligion, any more than I would for his want of 
a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut 
out from what, to me and to others, were such su- 
perlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point 
of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply im- 
bue the mind of every child of mine with religion* 
If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to 
his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this 
sweet little fellow, who is just now running about 
my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glow- 
ing heart ; and an imagination, delighted with the 
painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure 
him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale 
the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance 
of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming 
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and 
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by 
swift, delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublu- 
nary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and 
bursts out into the gloriotis eutlytsiasui of Thom- 
son, 



222 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



" These, as they cbang:e, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God.— The rolling- year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real de- 
lights ; and I ask what of the delights among the 
sons of men are superior, not to say equal, to 
them? And they have this prtcious, vast addition, 
that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; 
and lays hold on them to bring herself into the 
presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving 
God. 



beasts— that it was not in my nature to be brutal 
to any one— that to be rude to a woman, when in 
my senses, was impossible with me— but— 



Regret ' Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell-hounds 
that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare 
me ! spare me .' 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, 
madam, your humble slave. 



No. CLI. 



No. CL. 

To Mrs. R*****. 

Supposes himself to be -writing from the dead to 
the living. 

Madam, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever re- 
ceived from this netlier world. I write you from 
the regions of hell, amid the horrors if the damn- 
ed. The time and manner of my leaving your 
earth I do not exactly know ; as I took my de- 
parture in the heat of a fever of intoxication, con- 
tracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but on 
my arrival here, I was faii'ly tried, and sentenced 
to endure the purgatorial tortui'es of this infernal 
confine, for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven 
months, and twenty-nine days ; and all on account 
of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight un- 
der your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pity- 
less furze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- 
low of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tor- 
mentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I 
think is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, 
forbids peace or rest to appi-oach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake Still, madam, if I could, 
in any measure, be reinstated in the good opinion 
of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so 
much injured, I think it would be an alleviation 
to my torments. For this reason I trouble you 
■with this letter. To the men of the company I 
will make no apology.— Your husband, who insist- 
ed on my drinking more than I chose, has no right 
to blame me ; and the other gentlemen were pai*- 
takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I have 
much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued 
as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on 
earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 
was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gen- 
tle, and unassuming manners— do make, on my 

part, a miserable d d wretch's best apology to 

her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me 

the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this 
makes me hope that I have not outraged her be- 
yond all forgiveness.— To all the other ladies jilease 
present my humblest conti'ition for my conduct, 
and my petition for their gracious pardon, O all 
ye powers of decency and decorum ! whisper to 
them that my errors, though great, were involun- 
tary— that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 



To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

My dear friend, 15th December ^ 1795. 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dul- 
ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, 
has been so ill, that every day, a week or less 
threatened to terminate her existence. There had 
much need be many pleasures annexed to the 
states of husband and father, for, God knows, they 
have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to 
you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties fre- 
quently give me. I see a train of helpless little 
foUis ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and 
on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! 
If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; even in 
all the vigour of manhood as I am— such things 
happen every day— gracious God! Mhat would be- 
come of my little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy 
your people of fortune !— A father on his death- 
bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, 
has indeed woe enough ; but the man of compe- 
tent fortune leaves his sons and daughters inde- 
pendency and friends ; while I— but I shall run 
distracted if I think any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad— 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 

I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 

They cry, crowdie .' evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie .' three times in a day: 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away."— • 



December 24th. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here, this sea- 
son ; only, as all other business does, it experiences 
a stagnation of trade from the epidemical com- 
plaint of the counu-y, want of cash. 1 mention 
our theatre merely to lug in aa occasional Ad- 
dress which I wrote for the benefit-night of one of 
the actresses, and which is as follows— 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



$23 



Jtepentance; 
rid stand, ^ 

'' I 

: a guilty { 



ADDRESS, 

tpokcn by Misi Fontenelle on her bcncjit-night, Z)e- 
cember 4th, 1795, at the theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A prologue, epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if notliing better ; 
So, sought a poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
'• I know your bent— tluse are no laughing times : 
Can you— but. miss, I own I have my fears- 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er 
land?" 

I could no more— askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz— nay more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That misery's another word for grief: 
I also think— so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.— 

Thou man of crazy care, and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam witch i 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love. 
Who long with.jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope— thy neck— 
Or, where the beetling clift' o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to mepitate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies— laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand specific— 

To sum wp all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merrj-, may we still be Avisf .— 



mine ? Tell me, how you like my marks and notcx 
through the book. I would not give a farthing for 
a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my 
criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first sketch- 
ed, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out 
fair. On looking over some old musty papers, 
which, from time to time, I had parcelled by, as 
trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which 
yet at the same time I did not care to destroy ; i 
discovered many of these rude sketches, and Jiave 
written, and am writing them out, iji a bound MS. 
for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a sin- 
gle scroll to you, except one, about the commence- 
ment of our acquaintance. If there were any pos- 
sible conveyance, I would send you a perusul of 
my book. 



No. CLII. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP, in LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795.. 

I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, when 
your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the 
country, and did not return until too late to an- 
swer your letter ; in the next place, I thought you 
would certainly take this route ; and now I know 
not what is become of you, or whether this may- 
reach you at all.— God grant that it may find you 
and yours in prospering health and good spirits. 
Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend cap- 
tain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up the 
pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose 
or poesy, sermon or song. In this last article I 
have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to 
you a superb publication of Scottish songs which 
is making its appearance in your great metropo- 
lis, and where I have the honour to pi-eside over 
the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Pe* 
ter Pindar does over the English. I wrote the fol- 
lowing for a favourite air. 



25th, Christmas Morning. 

This, my rauch-loved friend, is a morning of 
wishes : accept mine — so heaven heair me as they 
are sincere ! that blessings may attend your steps, 
aiid affliction know you not ! In the charming 
•words of my favourite author, The Man of Feel- 
ing, " May the great Spirit bear up the weight of 
thy grey hairs ; and blunt the arrow that brings 
them rest!" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? Is not the Task a glorious poem ? The 
religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Cal- 
vmistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature : 
the religion that exalts, tliat ennobles man. Were 
nrit yon to sertd me your Zektco in return for 



December 29th> 
Since I began this letter I have been appointed 
to act in the capacity of super>-isor here, and I as- 
sure you, what with the load of business, and what 
with that business being new to me, i could scarce- 
ly have commanded ten minutes to have spoken 
to you, had you been in town, much less to have 
written you an epistle. This appointment is only 
temporary, and during the illness of the present 
incumbent ; but I look forward to an early period 
when I shall be appointed in full form : a consumr 
matiou devoutly to be wished ! My political sinS 
seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's day is now m% 
date) of wishing ; and mine are roost f»?rven»:!y of- 



S24 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, 



fered up for you ! May life to you be a positive 
Wessiiig while it lasts, for your own sake ; and 
that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wisli 
for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of 
your friends ! What a transient business is life ! 
Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a 
young man ; and I already begin to feel the rigid 
fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast 
o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and, 
I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate 
myself on having had, in early days, religion strong- 
ly impressed on my mijid. I have nothing to say 
to any one, as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed he believes ; but I look on the man, wJio is 
firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness 
superintending and directing every circumstance 
that can happen in his lot— I felicitate such a man 
as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoy- 
ment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of 
difficulty, ti-ouble, and distress ; and a never-fail- 
ing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the 
grave. 



January 12th. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the doctor, long ere this. I hope he is 
well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I dare say for the 
hujtdred and fiftieth time, his Vie7v of Society and 
Manners; and still I read it with delight. His 
humour is perfectly original— it- is neither the hu- 
mour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of 
any body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have 
depi-ived me of Zehico ; remember that, Avhen you 
are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect 
from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quot- 
ing me in liis last jmblication*. 



following detached stanzas I intend to interweave 
in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



No. CLIV. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Zlst January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two packets 
in my debt — what sin of ignorance I have commit- 
ted against so highly valued a friend, I am utter- 
ly at a loss to guess. Alas I madam, ill can I af- 
ford, at this time, to be depi-ived of any of the 
small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately 
drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn 
robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, 
and that at a distance too and so rapidly, as to 
put it out of my power to pay the lust duties to 
her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that 
shock, when I became myself the victiin of a most 
severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun 
doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, 
it seems to have turned up life, and I am begin- 
ning to crawl across my room, and once indeed 
have been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day. 



No. CLIII. 
To Mrs. R»****. 



To Mrs. R******, 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth-day Assem- 
bly on that day to shew his loyalty. 



20th January, 1796. 
I cannot express my gratitude to you for allow- 
ing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. In fact I 
never met with a book that bewitched me so much ; 
and as a member of the library must warmly feel 
the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed, to 
me, the obligation is stronger than to any other in- 
dividual of our society ; as Anacharsis is an indis- 
pensible desideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have 
not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an 
hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements 
I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able 
to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 

* Edward, 



4th June, 1796. 
I am in sucli miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of shewing my loyalty in any way. 
Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting lilie that of Balak to Balaam, 
— " Come curse me, Jacob ; and come defy me Is- 
rael !" So say I— Come curse me, that east wind ; 
and come defy me, the north \ Would you have me 
in such circumstances copy you out a love-song? 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will 
not be at the ball.— Why should I ? " man delights 
not me, nor woman either!" Can you supply me 
with the song, Let us all be unhappy together— Ao 
if you can, and oblige le pauvr.e miserable 

R. B. 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, 



No. CLVH. 



No. CLVI. 



To Mrs. BURNS. 



To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. 



Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 1th July, 1796. 



^y dear Cunning^ham, 

I i-eceived yours here this moment, and am in- 
deed highly flattered uith tlie approbation of tlie 
litei-ary circle you mention ; a literarj' circle infe- 
rior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my 
friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be 
heard among you no more ! For these eight or ten 
months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast, and 
somttimes not ; but these last three months I have * 
been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, 
which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. 
You actually would not know me if you saw me. 
—Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to 
need help from my chair— my spirits fled ! fled !— 
but I can no more on the subject— only the medi- 
cal folks tell me that my last and only chance is 
bathing and country quarters, and riding.— The 
deuce of the matter is this : when an exciseman is 
off duty, his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 
50/.— What way, in the name of thrift, shall I main- 
tain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters 
—with a wife and five children at home, on 35/.? 
I mention this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can 
muster, to move our commissioners of excise to 
grant me the full salary.— I dare say you know 
them all persotially. If they do not gi-ani it me, I 
must lay my account with an exit truly en porte ; 
if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my 
memory does not serve me with, and I have no 
copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, when I 
will send it )ou.— Apropos to being at home, Mrs. 
Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add one more 
to my paternal charge, w hich, if of the right gen- 
der, 1 intend shall be introduced to the world by 
the n-spectable designation of Alexander Cun- 
ninghani Burns. My last was James Glencalrn, so 
you can have no objection to the cQmpany of no- 
bUJtv. Farewell. 



My dearest love, Broiv, Thursdai/. 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would 
be injustice to deny that it has eased my pain?, 
and I think has strengthened me ; but my appe- 
tite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I 
swallow : porridge and milk are the only thing I 
can taste. I am ver>- happy to hear by miss Jess 
Lewaft"s, that you are all well. My very best and 
kindest compliments to her and to all the children. 
I will see you on Sunday. Your affectionate hus- 
band, R. B. 



No. CLVIII. 

To Jlrs. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Broia, 12th July, 1796. 

I have written you so often, without receiving 
any answer, that I would not trouble you again, 
but for the circumstances in which I am. An ill- 
ness which has long hung about me, in all proba- 
bility will speedily send me beyond that bourne 
ivlience no traveller returns. Your friendship, with 
which for many years you honoured me, was 
a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversa- 
tion, and especially your correspondence, were at 
once highly entertaining and instructive. With 
what pleasure did I use to break up the seal I The 
remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor 
palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! R. B. 

The above is supposed to be the last production 
of Robert Bums, who died on the 21st of the month, 
nine days afterwards. He had however the plea- 
sure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of his 
friend's silence, and an assurance of the continu- 
ance of her friendship to his widow and children ; 
an assurance that has been amply fulfilled. 

Jt is ])robable that the greater part of her let- 
ters to him were destroyed by our bard about the 
time that this last was written. He did not fore- 
see that his own letters to her, were to appear in 
print, nor conceive the disappointment that will 
be felt, that a few of this excellent lady's have not 
served to enrich and adorn the collection. F. 



Ff 



POEMS, 

FORMERLY PUBLISHED, 

WITH SOME ADDITIONS. 

TO WHICH IS ADDED, 

A HISTORY OF THESE POEMS, 

BY GILBERT BURNS. 



DEDICATION 

Of the Second Edition of the Poems formerly printed. 



TO THE 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



OF THE 



CALEDOJS^MJV Hujrr. 



5ly lords and gentlemen, 

A Scottish bard, proud of the name, and whose 
highest ambition is to sing in his country's service, 
Vhere shall he so propei-ly look for patronage, as 
to the illustrious names of his native land ; those 
who bear the honours and inherit the lirtues of 
their ancestors ? The poetic. Genius of my counti*y 
found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha 
—at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the 
rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, 
in my native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless 
notes, as she inspired.— She whispered me to come 
to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay 
my songs under your honoured protection : I now 
^bey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do 
not approach you, my lords and gentlemen, in the 
usual style of dedication, to thank you for past 
favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted 
learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. 
Hot do I present this address with the venal soul 
of a servile author, looking for a continuation of 
those favours : I was bred to the plough, and am 
independent. I come to claim the common Scot- 
tish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; 
and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I 
«nne to congratulate my counti^. tbat the blood 



of her ancient heroes still runs unconfaminated ; 
and that from your courage, knowledge, and pub- 
lic spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my 
warmest wishes to tlie great fountain of honour, 
the Monarch of the Univei-se, for your welfare 
and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the 
ancient and favourite amusement of your forefa- 
thers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and 
may Social Joy await jour return : when harass- 
ed in courts or camps with the justlings of bad 
men and bad measures, may the honest conscious- 
ness of injured worth, attend your return to your 
native seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, Mith a 
smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! May 
Corruption shrink at your kindlings indignant 
glance ; and may tyranny in the ruler, and li- 
centiousness in the people, equally find you an iii- 
exorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be. 

With the sincerest gi-atitude, 
and highest respect, 

My lords and gentlemen, 
Your most devoted, humble servant, 

BOBRRT BURNS* 
Edinburgh, 
April 4th. 17875 



POEMS, 



CHIEFLY 



SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cccsar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, liis lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But wlialpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kii-k or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhymiHg, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Liiath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang*, 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang 

He was a gash an' faithful tyke. 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuflTd and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' woiTy'd ither in diversion ; 
Until, wi' daflin weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they sat them doAvn, 



* CuchulUn's dog in Ossiaa's Fijigal. 



And there began a long digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've aften wonder 'd. honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have§ 
An' when ths genti-y's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His cols, his kaioi, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse. 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steaks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sick like trashtrie^' 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I o\vn it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesai", whyles they're fash't enoug;lt 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sicklike, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
An' nought but his han darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. ^ 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzie^ 
Are bred in sick a way as tliis is. 

C^SAR. 
But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff 'd, and cuff 'd, and disfespeckit I 



POEMS. 



L— d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditcliers, an' sic cattle ; 
They g^ang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches i 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom 'd wi' the sight. 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfoit o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' tlieir fire-side. 

An' whyles twali>erinie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside tlitir private cares, 
To mind the kirk and state affairs : 
Tliey'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's coinin. 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon''on, 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
Wlien rin'al life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common reci'eation ; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' slieds a heart-inspiring steam; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The j'oung anes rantin thro' the house, — 
JVIy heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true tliat ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk. 
Are riven out baitli root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit hirasel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha' aiblins, thrang a parliamentin. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentiu — 

C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain'' s guid: guid faith! I doubt it. 



Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him^ 
An' saying ay or ?io's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading i 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl. 
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' newt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows. 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 
For Britain''s guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports. 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter ! 
Por thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' tliem's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin o' a hai'e or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, master Caesar, 
Sure great fulk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

CiESAR. 

L— d, man, were ye but whiles whare I aou 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They make enow themsels to vex them ; 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right enough ; 
A country girl at l»er wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco wecl : 
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' even thtir sports, their balls an* i-ace^ 
Their galloping tluoiigh public places^. 



POEMS. 



There's sic pai-ade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Nicst day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood row tin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs i 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



Food fills tli« wame, an' keeps us livui; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin ; 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he xoink, 

Thafs sinking in despair ; 
An'' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That''s prest wi'' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an'' deep carouse, 

IVV bumpers fiounng o^er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

An* minds his griefs no more. 

Soloiuon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas 
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 
An' crabbit names an' stories wi-ack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or j ug. 

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the v/ale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shjnes chief. 



That merry night we get the corn in. 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ; 
Or reekin on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. 

An' gusty sucker i 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rai-e ! to see the fizz an' freath 

I' th' lug get caup! 
Then Burnervin* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel i 
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong foreharamer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour: 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How furablin cufs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name .' 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae thein. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel \ 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. 

To taste the haiTel. 

Alake ! that e'er my muse has reason 
To wyte her countiymen wi' treason • 

* Burnewin—Burn-the'7vind— the blucksfnjrb- 
an appropriate title. E. 

G s 



2S4 



I^EMS. 



But raonie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 

A.i' hardly, in a wij.ttr's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, hurning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Tm ins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her worst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wints to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' rvhisky punch 
Wi' honest men. 

Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes— they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a---s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' excise, 
Wha mak the rvhisky stells their prize ! 
Hand up thy han', deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d— n'd drinkers. 
Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, 
An' I'owth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S 
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN 

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! — — 

'——HoTv art thou lost .' — 

Pai'ody on Milton. 
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, 
M^ha represent our brughs an' shires, 

* This was written before the act anent the 
Scotch distilleries, of session 1786 ; for which Scot- 
land and the author return theilf most grateful 
thanks. 



An' doucely manage our affaii-s 

In parliament, 
To you a simple poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my i-oupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honours' heart wi' grief 'twad piercP, 
To see her sittin on her a— 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them who hae the chief dii-ection, 
Scotland an' rije's in gi*eat affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aquavitce ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 
Aif move their pity. 

. Stand forth, an' tell yon premier youth. 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble ; 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come. 

Far beuer want 'em. 

In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back. 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Befoi'e them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle, 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle * 
An' d-mn'd excisemen in a bussle. 
Seizin a stell. 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 
Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her. 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

CoUeaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is tliere, that bears the name o' Scot^ 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight I 
But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

An' tie some hose well. 



POEMS. 



2.35 



God bless youv honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it I 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause. 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran* ; 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The laird o' Grahamf ; 
An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, 
Dutidas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Catnpbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld sir JVilUe ; 

An' moiiie ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'U see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin wliittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie I) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her wliisky. 

An' L— d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petitcoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair. 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear. 
To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox; 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' m^cks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en eowe the caddie .' 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' spoitin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks. 



* Sir Adam Ferguson. 

t The present dufee of Mentrose. 



An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock\i* 
Nine times a-week, 

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 
Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
Shi "s just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen jftve-and-forty. 
May still your mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamie^s .' 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Raff his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skie;* 
See future wines, rich clust'ring. rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But, blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her fi-eeborn, martial boys 

Tak aff their whisky. 

What tho' their Phcebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring s wither 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp— a shot— they're aff, a' throw ther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal Georgie's will. 

An' there's the foe, 
He Ijas nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 



* A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauch- 
line, where he sometimes studies politics over a 
glass of gude auld Scotch drink. 



236 



I*OEMS. 



Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
\Vi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
Uis latest draught o' brealhin lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek. 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me IVhisky^s name in Greek, 
I'll tell the x-eason. 

Scottand, ray auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! 

Tak afF your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR*. 

A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung^ ivith poison'' d crust. 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show^l 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him hi Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

An* snuff the caller air ; 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirpliit down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantiu 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 

As lightsoraely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road. 

Came skelpin up the way ; "" 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining-, 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twiu. 

In feature, form, an' claes ! 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin. 
An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up> hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of 
•'Scotland for a saci'amental occasio(|. 



An' wi' a curchie low did stoop , 
As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sui-e I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak. 

An' taks me by the hands, 
Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

V. 

My name is Fun—your cvonie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here. 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to ********* Holy fair 

To spend an hour in dafiin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day," 

VI. 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, * 

An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin ! 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to sido, 

Wi' monie a wcarie body. 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here farmers gash, in ridin graitli, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang. 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An^ far Is bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Tlien in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin. 
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stoolj, 

An' some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 
An' screen our countra gentry, 

There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh— rgj^J 
Are blinkin at the entry. 

Here sits a raw of tittlin jadeS; 
Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 



POtMS. 



237 



An' there a batch o' wabster lads, 

filackguarding ftrae K ck 

For fun this day. 



The moral man he does define, 
But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 



X. 

Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 



XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison 'd nostrum ; 
For *******, frae the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G^, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it. 
While Comynon-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate*, 

Fast, fast, that day. 

XVII. 

Wee ******, niest, the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith the birkie wants a manse, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 



XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For ****** speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t-n. 
iShould Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G— present him, 
The vei*a sight o' *****'s face, 

To's ain bet hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 



XVIIl. 

Now butt an' ben, the change-house fill5, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lanjf, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' scriptui-e. 
They raise a din, that, in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 



XIII. 
Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin an' thumpin .' 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he'sjumpin! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout. 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
© how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
***** opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' afF the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine, 
Of moi-al pow'rs and reason ? 

His EngUsh style, an' gesture fine, 
Are a' clean out o' season. 

Like Socrates or Antonine, 
Or some aflld pagan heathen, 



XIX. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waiikens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whiskey gill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day^ 

1^ XX. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body. 
Sit round the table, weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk; 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some daj . 

XXI. 
But now the L— d's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts-^ 

Black ****** is na spairin: 

* A street so called, which faces th6 fent'm'~s 



2S8 



POEMS. 



His piercing words, like Higlilan swords, 
Divide the joints an' marrow ; 

His talk o' h-11, whare devils dwell, 
Our vera sauls does harrow* 

Wi' fright that day. 



There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some ai'e fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



XXII. 
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,. 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How raonie stories past, 
An' how they crouded to the yill, 

When they wei-e a' dismist : 
How drinli gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' daM'ds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaueie, gash guidwife. 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Sj-ne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are sliyer. 
The auld guidmen, about tlie grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gies them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 
Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae uaething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O, wives, be mindfu', ance yourse), 

How bonie lads ye wanfed. 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affi-onied 

On sic a day I 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumhell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger home, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, an' love an' drink. 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane gin night are gane. 

As saft as ony flesh is. 

* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORT. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail't wi' scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, y 
Is just as true's the deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witchesi 

The rising moon began to glowr 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on PVillie^s mill. 
Setting my staff" wi' a' my skill 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there w' somethi7ig did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-tae'd leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

" Guid-een," quo' I ; " friend .' hae ye been mawin, 
■yChen ither folk are busy sawin* .'"' 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 

But naething spak ; 

* This rencounter happened in seed time, 1785, 



POEMS. 



a.-^y 



At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun ? 
Will ye go back ?" 

It spak right howe,— " My name is Death, 
But be na' fley'd."— Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie ; 
I red ye^weel, tak care o' skaith. 

See there's a gully !" 

•' Gudeman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no design 'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gi-ee't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come, gies your news ; 
This while* ye liae been mony a gate 

At mony a house." 

" Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread. 

An' sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the butcliing bred. 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane HornbooWsf ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachau, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan% 

An' ither chaps. 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae ^erc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cui'sed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gfaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 



* An epidemical fever was then raging in that 
country. 

t This gentleman. Dr. Hornbook, is, profession- 
ally, a brother of the sovereign order of the Feru- 
la ; but, by intuition and inspiration, is, at once, 
an apothecary, surgeon, and physician. 

X Buehan's Domestic Medicine. 



" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae foi-tify'd the part, 
That when I looked to iny dart. 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock •, 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it. 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon as he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it. 

At once he tells't. 

" And then a doctor's saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horu shavings, filings, scrapings, 

TiKtxWW per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail-clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now," 

Quo' I, "if that the news be true .' 

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnie I" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, '* Ye need na yoke the pleugh> 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd encugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugU 

In twa-lhree year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night, I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Horjibook^s skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 

By drap an' pill. 

" An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred^ 



The grave-digger. 



24a 



POEMS. 



Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 
When it was sair ; 

The wife slade cannle to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

" A countra laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was laird hinisel. 

" A bonie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn dinnk had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook''s care ; 
Hoi'ti sent her aff to her long hame. 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook^s way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me ©' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : 

But, hark I I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot. 

As dead's a herrin ; 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

A POEM. , 

Inscribed to J. b*********, Esq. Ajt. 

The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 

bush; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the 

hill; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred. 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling ci'imes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 
No I though his artless sti-ain? he rudely sings. 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the bard, 
?:ame, lionest fame, l^s great, his dear reward. 



Still, if some ptitron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
When B********* befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godliiie bliss, to give, alone excels. 



} 



\ 



^Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap. 
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith 
Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doora'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ^ 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon-tide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a sijnple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whom inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, 
And down by Simpsoii's* wheel'd the left about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wandcr'd out he knew not where nor why.) 
The di-owsy Dungeon-clockf had nuraber'd two. 
And Wallace Tozv^rf had sworn the fact was true ; 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree ; 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.—' 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midiiight air. 
Swift as the gos^ di'ives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers ; 
Our warlock rhymer instantly descry'd 
The sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke. 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

t The two steeples. 

I The gos-hawk, or falcon. 



POEMS. 



241 



Fays, spunkics, kelpies, a\ they can explain them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
Thf vei-y wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He setiii'd as he wi' Time had warstlM lang, 
Yet ttughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
Nnv Brig was busliit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at London, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he .' 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mein, 
He, down the water, gies him this guideen— 

AULD BRIG. 

I douht na, frien', ye'U think y'ere nae sheep 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day I doubt yell never see* 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whignieleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet. 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonie Bi-igA- o' modern lime ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream*, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
E'er they would grate tlieir feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly, Gotliic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ? pufT'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Bi'ig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar''s mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. 
Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
Wliile crashing ice, borne on tlie roaring speat, 
Sweep dams, an' mills, an" brigs, a' to the gate ; 



k'him ; 

lie bended "% 

' be free, V 
1, in air, or v 



And from Glenbuck*, down to the Ratton-keij-f, 
Auld Atjr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea; 
Then do^vll ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gnmlie jaups up to the pouring shins. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 
Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! 
Tlie L— d be thankit that we've tint tJie gate o't ! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiiing coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture dres^. 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the 

knee. 
And still the second dread comjnaiid 
Their likeness is not found on earth, 

sea; 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only foi* a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid brugh denies protection I 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrec- 
tion ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O yc, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye •worthy proveses, an' mony a baiiie, 
Wha in the paths of rigliteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty deacons, an' ye douce conveeners. 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers i 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon tlie broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Na langer rev'rend men, their country's glor)'. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story .' 
Nae langer thrifty citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by taylors and by barbers, 
Wha waste yoiu* weel-hain'd gear on d— d neio 
Brigs and Harbours ! 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

t The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few 
places in tlie west of Scotland, where those fancy 
scaring beings, known by the name of ghaists, 
still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 



NEW BRIG. 
Now hand you there ! for faith ye've sai3 
enough. 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to throngh, 

* The source of the river Ayr. 
t A small landing place above the lajge key. 
Hh 



POEMS. 



As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 

Corbies and clergy are a shot right kittle ; 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' magistrates might weel be spar'd : 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 

To mouth " a citizen." a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the council waddles down the street, 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grow wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 

If, haply, Knowledge, on a random tramp. 

Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 

And would to Common-sense for once betray'd 

them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



4 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if sprites had blood to sh e jj, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'4 : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While aits of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'- Lauchlan* , thairm-inspii-ing sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thi'o' his dear strathspeys they bore 

with Highland rage : 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch in- 

spii 'd \ 
No guess 'iould tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

Tlie genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next foUow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle 

wreatl). 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

» A well known performer of Scottish mrtsic on 
the violin. 



The broken iron instruments of death i 
At sight of whom our sprites forgot their kindlih'g 
wrath. ' 

THE ORDINATION. 

For sense they little owe to frugal heaven— 
To please the mob they hide the little given. 

I. 

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations : 
Swith to the Laigh kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your station; ; 
Then afF to B-gb-^s in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day, 

II. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' h-U^ 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder* ; ^ 

But o******* aft made her yell. 

An' R***** sairmisca'd her; 
This day M' ******* takes the flail. 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail. 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

IIL 

Mak haste an' turn king Da\'id owre. 

An' lilt wi' holy clangour ; 
O' double verse come g^e us four. 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
For heresy is in her pow'r. 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff" wi' vigour, 
How gi'aceless Hamf leugh at his dad^ 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or PhineasX drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhoning rigour ; 
Or Zipporah§, the scauldin jad, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 
V. 
There, try his mettle on the creed. 

And bind him down wi' caution. 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 

And punish each transgression; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made 
on the admission of the late reverend and worthy 
Mr. L. to the Laigh kirk. 

t Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22, 

t Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. 

* Exodus, ch. iv. ver, g^. 



POEMS^ 



243 



vr. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick and wale. 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 



XII. 

But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there— they're packed aff to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day> 



VII. 

Na mair by BabeVs streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
■€t>me, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tr3in ; 
O, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails flyiii 

Fu' fast this day ! 



XIII. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall hei-e nae mair find quarter: 

]^(******^ j^*****^ ^P^ ^Y^Q boys. 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 



VIII. 

Bang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has shor'd the kirk's undoin, 
As lately F-ntv-ck, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencafrn, 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 



XIV. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion. 
To every neiv light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din. 

Or patronage intrusion, 
"We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rip them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



IX. 

Now, R»*****^ harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of A**, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the N-tk-rt-n repair. 

And turn a carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 



M***** and you were just a matcb^ 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons : 
And aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 

XL 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein thro' the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow its unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

Tto raak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this daf. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. Mr. , 

On his text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2, " And they 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the 
stall." 

Right, sii-, your text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco calf! 

And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find 

YeVe still as great a stirk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns. 
The like has been, that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

* Neiv-light is a cant phrase, in the west of Scotf 
land, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor 
of Norwich has defended $o strenuously. 



244 POEMS. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the norvte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

" Here lies a famous bullock .'" 



ADDRESS 



TO THE DEIL. 

Oh prince! Oh chief of many throned poro^rs^ 
That led the embattl'd seraphim to -war—. 

Milton. 



O tliou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Homie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'n to a deil. 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame j 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
Au' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An, faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles ranging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' comers tryin ; 
"VVhyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin. 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom prjHLa, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray, 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gi'ay. 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my grannie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 

Or, ruslin, thro' the boortries corain, 

Wi' heavy groan. 



The cudgel in my uieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaiek— quaick* 

Amang tht- springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let -warlocks gfrim, an' withcr'd hags, 

Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. 

They skiin the rauirs, ait' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 

And in kirk-yards renew their 1< agues, 

Owre how kit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint harukie''s gaen 

As yeU's the bilU 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;' 
When the best vvark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord. 
Then Tvater-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkier 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies 

Delude liis eyes. 
Till in some mii-y slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When masons'' mystic ivord an' grip. 
In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell I 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell i 

Lang syne, in Eden''s bonie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r: 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog i 
Ye came to Paradise incog., 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa 1} 
An' gied the infant warld a shod, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 



Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye^like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving su|fh. 



D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your snioutie phiz, 

'Mang better folk. 
An' sklented on the man of Uz. 

Your spitefu' joke ? 



POEMS. 



345 



An' how ye gat him i' your thi-all, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' botches did liim gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your deings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 
Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith .' he'll turn a corner jinkin. 
An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake .' 



THE DEATH AND DYING JVORDS 

OF POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

An unco mournfii' tale. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a- hitch. 
An' o\vre she warsl'd in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie. 
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by, 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near hand ended, 
But, waes ray heart .' he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ; 
At length poor Mailie silence brak, 

" O, thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case .' 
My dying tuords attentive hear. 
An' bear them to my master dear, 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp of hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo i 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me and mine ; 

* Vide Milton, book vi. 
+ A nejbor hcrd-callan. 



An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives 1 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither viJe, wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears. 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will g^e them bits o' bread, 
An' baii-ns greet for them when they're dea<t 

" My poor toup-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' carel 
A n', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame : 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither mensless, graceless brutes, 

" An' niest my yoruie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blaslit, moorland toop ; 
But aye keep mind to nioop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel .' 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her een amang the dead." 



POOR MAILIE'S 

ELECT. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Pasta' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie\ dead.' 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
* In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when slie did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him. 

Than Mnilie deaiU 



24fi 



POEMS. 



I wat she was a sheep o' sense^ 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never bi-ak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailieh dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
Her living image, in her yoive. 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie deapfl. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Troeedi 
A horaev Jleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie\ dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing— a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread j 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonie Boon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune I 
Come, join the melancholious croon 
O' Robiii's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead» 



TO J. S****. 

Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul! 
Sivcefner of life, and solder of society ! 

J owe thee much, 

Blair. 

Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Te surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human heai'ts j 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
yfe've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, nature. 
To mak amends for scrirapit stature, 
She's turn'd you off, a human creature 

On ber first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote, the man. 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
Mybannie noddle's working prim«; 



My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 

Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash; 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit. 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while ray notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid, black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hooli«l 
1 red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'U shaw your folly, 

" There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in Creek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtor^ 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove wl>ere busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed. 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. 
Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and hale. 
Then top and maintop croud the sail. 

Heave care o'er side 1 
And large, before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield j 
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes bost^l, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepiv pace. 



BOEMS. 



247 



When ance life's day draws near the gloamin. 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ; 
An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin, 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel deai*, deluding woman. 

The joy of joys ! 

O life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To join and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ^ 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then came, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servau', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on ; 
'Till curst witli age, obscure an' starvin, 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, " ye pow'rs !" and warm implore, 
** Tho' I should wander ^erra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more. 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards. 

And maids of honour ; 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent» 
JBut give me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 



" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't -water-brose, or miuilin-kail, 

Wi' chearfu' face. 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the g^ace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you— O fool .' fool ! fool / 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-bi'ain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're ivise ; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes— 

—Ye ken the road.-^ 

Whilst I— but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, -words, and deeds, the statute blames v.^it% 

reason ; 
But surely dreams -were ne''er indicted treason. 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureafi- 
ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the 
author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he ima- 
gined himself transported to the birth-day levee; 
and in his dreaming fancy, made the following 
Address.^ 



Guid-mornin to your majesty ! 

May heaven augment your blisses,' 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this dg}', 



S4S 



pobmS. 



II. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By moiiy a lord and lady ; 
« God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-tum'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace. 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the i-acc, 

And aiblius ane been better 

Thau you this day. 



vin. 

Adieu, my liegt ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birtlwlay. 

IX. 

Hail, majesty most excellent : 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonie bairntime, heav'n has lent^ 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



IV. 

'Tis vei-y true, my sov'reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are cheels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 

Is e'en right i-eft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, wiU gang about it 

Than did ae dav. 



X. 

For you, young potentate o' W— — , 

I tell your highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails^ 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly. 
That e'er ye brak Dianah pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 



V. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith i 1 muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 



XI. 

Yet aft a ragged co^vteh been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were, or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer sir Johnf, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 



VI. 
And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester y 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith .' I fear, that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

1' the craft some day. 



XII. 
For you right rev'rend O ., 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeteV, 
Altho' a ribban at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 



VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(Arv Wiir% a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But G-d-sake ! let nae saving-Jit 

Abridge your bonie barges 

An' boats this day. 



XIII. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley^, stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Fenus^ barter ; 

* King Henry V. 

t Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspeare. 
t Alluding to the news-paper account of a cer- 
tain royal sailor's amotir. 



fiut first hang out, that she'll discern, 

Your h) nieneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An' larg^e upo' her quarter. 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
\,n' German gentles are but sma'', 

They're better just than 7vant aye 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Your unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be througbj 

It may be bitter sautet: 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST*. 



POEMS. 

Or struttei! in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash-account : 

While here, half-mad, half-fed, lialf-sarkit, 
Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blackhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 

Till my last breath— 

When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my iiigle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form 'd, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
tV^hen sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish muse. 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been brokaii. 



249 



The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger'd niaukin taen her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary Jlingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 
I gaed to rest. 



A " hair-bnun'd, sentimental trace" 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
'Till half a leg was scriinply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 



There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
1 backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done nae-thing, 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 

* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divi- 
sions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Lo^a, vol. 
It. of M'Pherson's translation. 



Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grajid ; 
And seem'd, to ray astouish'd view, 

A zvell knoivn land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountauis to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast. 
With surging foam ; 
There, distajit shone art's lofty boast. 
The lordly dome. 

Here, Boon pour'd down his far-fetched floods ; 
There, well-fed Irvine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 
On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds. 

With seeming roar. 
I i 



250 



POEMS. 



Low, in a sandy-valley spread. 
All ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowng transpoi-t feel, 
To see a race* heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoUing seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His counfry''s saviourf, mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton's^ heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark§ who glorious fell. 

In high command ; 
And /le whom ruthless fates expel 

His native laud. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade)] 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove^, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
XFit haunts for friendship or for love. 
In musing mood,) 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe** 
The learned sire and son 1 saw, 
To nature's God and nature's law 

They gave their lore, 

* The Wallaces. t William Wallace. 

X Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the 
jijnmortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

§ Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in 
command, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the 
famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 
1448. That glorious victory was principally 
owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour 
of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his 
wounds after the action. 

II Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the dis- 
trict of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, 
as tradition says, near the family-seat of the xMoni- 
gomeries of Coil's-field, where his burial place is 
still shown. 

H Barskimming, the seat of the lord justice- 
clerk. 

** Catrine, the seat of the late doctor, and 
present professor Stewart. 



This, all its source and end to draw. 
That, to adore. 

Brydone''s brave ward* I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare^ 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming _/«?>; 
A whisp'riag throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweety 
When with an eldei* sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard I 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

" Know the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his liigh command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share.;. 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ;, 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore^, 
They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild, poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence FuUarton, the brave and young j 
Hence Dempster''s zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minstrel lays ;" 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic^s bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind^ 
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 
The artisan ; 

* Colouel FuUarton. 



peEMs. 



251 



All chusc, as vaKous they're inclin'd, 
Tlie various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain. 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the inaiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a distriet-spacej 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embryotic ti-ace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guards 

" Of these am I—Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling power : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour, 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhJ^nes, 
Plr'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantl'd earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'i-y grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise^ 
1 saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe the flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way 



Misled by Cancy's meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 

But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
'Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy lame extends ; 
And some, the pride of CojZa's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

"' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thonisori's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Sheiistoiie^s art ; 
Or pour with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throwj 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Polos Ps mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic bard, 

" To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of man. 

With soul erect j 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protect. 

" And -wear thou this" — she solemn said^ 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The polish 'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



ADDRESS 

TO THE UNCO GUII), 

OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule. 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The rigid righteous is a fool. 

The rigid wise anither : 
The cleaiiest corn that e^er was dight 

May hnc some pyles o' caff' in ; 
So ne^er a felloiv-creaturc slight 

For random Jits o' daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16, 

I. 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 



252 



POEMS. 



Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' stoi-e o' -water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plajs clatter. 

II. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thouglitloss, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsit tricks, tlieir black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco leeway. 

V. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-mnation of expenses ! 

IV. 

Ye high, exalted, %irtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snugv 

A treacherous inclination— 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblius nae temptation. 

VIL 

Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kenuin wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving why they do it r 
And j ust as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 



Vlli. 
Who made the heart, 'tis he alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord— its various tone, 

Each spring— its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY 

An honest man's the noblest ivork of God, 

Pope- 
Has auld K********* seen the deil ? 
Or great M'*******t thrawn his heel? 
Or R*******;f again grow weel, 

To preach an' read ? 
'" Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel, 

"Tcm Samson''s deadl" 

K********* lang may grunt an' gi-ane, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' gi-eet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead !, 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in wofu' bevel, - 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gein the lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speedy 
Wha will they station at the cock, 

Tam Samson's dead ? 

He was the king o' a' the core 
To guai-d, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 



* When this worthy old sportsman went out last 
muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Os- 
sian's phrase, " the last of his fields ;*' and express- 
ed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. 
On tliis hint the author composed his elegy and 
epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the 
million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. 

% Another preacher, an equal fa^^ourite with the 
few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also 
the Ordination. stanv1> IX. 



POEMS. 



253 



And eels well ken'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 

Since dark in de&th^s Jish-cr eel we wail 
Tarn Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, cmusely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock jour fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain Hit gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre bmid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thunipit, 
'Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ' 

Wlien at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
" L— d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 

Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 

Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

IMarks out his head, 

"Wliare Burns has wrote, in. rhyming blether, 

Tam Samsons dead! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' rauirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by jon grave, 
rhree vollies let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead, 
'Till echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is the wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or may be three. 

Yet what reraead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead I 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here He$. 

Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 
If honest worth in heaven rise, 

Ye'll mend or ye win near hijn. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie*, 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grie^nn, 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
Tam Samson's livin. 



The folIo\ving poem will, by many readers, be 
well enough understood ; but, for the sake of 
those who are unacquainted with the manners 
and traditions of the country where the scene is 
cast, notes are added, to give some account of the 
principal charms and spells of that night, so big 
with proi)hecy to the peasantry in the west of 
Scotland. The passion of pr>nng into futurity 
makes a striking part of the history of human na- 
ture in its rude state, in all ages and nations ; and 
it may be some entertainment to a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author with 
a perusal, to see tlie remains of it, among the 
moi'e unenlightened in our own. 

HALLOWEENt. 

7'es ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to mxj hearty 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 

I. 

Upon that night, when fairies light. 

On Cassilis Downan^X ibance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove^, to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night. 



* Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes 
use for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, 
and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad 
on (heir baneful, midnight errands ; particularly 
those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that 
night, to hold a grand anniversary. 

t Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in 
the neiglibourhood of the anciejit seat of the earls 
of Cassilis. 

§ A noted cavern near Cohan-house, called the 
Cove of Colean ; which, as Casilis Dowans, is fam- 
ed in country story for being' a favourite haunt of 
fairies. 



^4 



POEMS. 



II. 

Amang the bonnie, winding hanks, 

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
Where Bruce* anee rul'd the martial rankS; 

An' shook the Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

And baud their Halloween 

Fu' biythe tbat night> 



VJ. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn* ; 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiutlin in the fause-housef 

Wi' hun that night. 



III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces biythe, fu' sweetly kythe^ 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night, 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocksf maun a' be sought ance : 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell afFthe drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the borv-kaU, 
An' pow't, for want o' better shift, 

A rmtt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shoutheV ; 
An' gif the custoc''.s sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi cannie care, they've plae'd them 
To lie that night 



* The famous family of that name, the ances- 
tors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, 
were earls of Carrick. 

t The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling 
each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, 
hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first 
they meet with : its being big or little, straight or 
crooked, is prophetic of the size and shajie of the 
grand object of all their spells— the husband or 
wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that 
is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, 
that is, the heart of tlie stem, is indicative of the 
natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, 
or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
->«Mf,y, are placed somewhere above the head of the 
door ; and the Christian names of the people, whom 
chance brings into the house, are, according to the 
priority of placing tbc rants, the itaraes in gues- 



VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits} 

Are round an' round divided. 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side. 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlic 

Fu' high that night* 

VIIL 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they m ad never mair pait ; 
'Tilljfuff"! he started up the lum, 

-An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night," 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt^ 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

X. 

Nell had the fause-house in lier min'. 

She pits herself an' Robin : 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

'Till white in ase they're sobbin : 

* They go to the barn yard and pull each, at 
three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third 
stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the 
top of the stalk, the party in question will come to 
the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being 
too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of 
old timber, &c. makes a large apartment in his 
stack, with an opening in the side, which is fairest 
exposed to the wind : this he calls & fause-house. 

X Burnmg the nuts is a famous charm. They 
name the lad -and lass to each particular nut, as 
they lay them in the fire, and accordingly as they 
burn quietly together, or start from beside one an- 
other, the course and issue of the courtsliip will 
Ue. 



i*DEMS> 



/Cell's heart was danein at tUe view, 
She whisper'd Rob to Icuk for't: 

|lob, stowHus, prie'd ht;r bonie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XI. 
But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the iiearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue* throws them, 

Right fear't that nighf. 

XII. 

An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
'Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L— d .' but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night-. 

XIII. 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, graunie ? 
I'll eat the applef at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She suff 't her pipe wi' sic a lunt. 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin. 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that nightw 

XIV. 

•' Ye little skelpie-limmer's face] 

How daur you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune ? 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 



.2'55 



XV. 



* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, 
must strictly observe these directions : Steal out' 
all alone, to the kiln, and, darkUng, throw into the 
pot, a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off 
the old one ; and, towards the latter end, some- 
thing will hold the thread ; demand, ivho hands ? 
t. e. who holds ; and answer will be returned from 
the kiln-pot, by naming the christian and sirname 
of your future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking, 
glass ; eat an apple before it, and some traditions 
say. you should comb your haii- all the time ; the 
face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be 
seen jn ^J.e glass, as if peeping ever yonr sh»uldcr. 



" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-mooj;, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat^ 

An' stuff was unco green; 
An' aye a rantin kirn we gat, 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Kab IVfOraen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-se^d,* I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel. 

He Avas sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

XVII. 
Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock. 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk. 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An'try't that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang tlie stacks 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass. 

Come after me, and draw thee 

As fast this night."'^" 

XIX. 
He whistl'd iip lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheary ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
'Till presently he hears a squeak. 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 



* Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of' 
hemp-seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can 
conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and 
then, •' Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-s<?ed, I saw 
thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love 
come after me and pou thee." Look over your 
left sJioulder, and you will see the appearance of 
the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
hemp. Some traditions say, " come after me and 
shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case 
It snnply appears. Others omit the harrowin^^ 
and say, " come. afUT me, and hpjTOw thee.-"' 



250 



POEMS. 



XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shaut, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young: an' auld came rinniu out. 

An' heai- the sad narration : 
fle swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
-Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' : 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night \ 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the barn g'aen, 

To -win three ivechts o' naething* ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples. 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera niglit. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cauuie thraw. 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

SjTie bauldly in she enters : 
A ration rattled up the wa', 

An' she cry'd L— d preserve her 1 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ana ; 
It chanc'dthe stack he faddom''t tfn-icef. 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin ; 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

'Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

Aff 's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 
As canty as a kittlen ; 

* This charm must likewise be performed, un- 
perceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open 
both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; 
for there is danger, that the being, about to ap- 
pear, may shut the doors, and do you some mis- 
chief. Then take that instrument used in win- 
nowing the corn, which, in eur country dialect, 
we call a wetch ; and go thi-ough all the attitudes 
of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it 
three times ; and the third time, an apparition 
will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, 
and out at the other, having both the figure in 
question, and the appearance or retinue, marking 
the employment or station in life. 

t Take an opportunity of going,, unnoticed, to 
a bear-atack, and fathom it three times round. The 
last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your 
arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- 
fellow. 



But och ! that night, amang the shaws^ 

She got a fearfu' settlin .' 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds" lands met at a burn*, 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the bumie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath tlie braes, 

Below the spreading hazle. 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool •; 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 
In order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The luggies threef are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mars-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 

He hcav'd them on tJie fire 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 
wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco talcs, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap, an' cheary ; 

* You go out, one or more, for this is a social 
spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where 
" three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt 
sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang jouf 
wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake ; and, 
some time near midnight, an apparition, having 
the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the 
other side of it. 

t Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, 
foul water in another, leave tlic tliird empty ; 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth 
where the dishes are ranged ; he (or she) dips the 
left hand : if, by chance, in the clean water, the 
future husband or wife will come to the bar of 
matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in 
the empty dish, it foretels, with equal certainty, 
no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
and every time the arrangement of the dishes )«> 
altered. 



rOEMS-. 



752 



'Till buttered so'ns*, wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
SyiK", wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff cai-eerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



When thou an' I wei-e young an' skeigh; 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreighj 

An' tak the road ] 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abiegh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 



THE AULD FARXfER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed ripp of com to 
hansel in the new year. 

A guid nerv-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 
Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 
Auce in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
AJilly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank. 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-an-twenty year, 
Sin thou was my guid father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was troltin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was tiickie, slee, an' funnie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 
An' unco sousie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonny bride : 
An' sweet and gvacefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble. 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble. 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 

* Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, 
Li a]w8)S the Hallotveen Supper. 



When thou was eorn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch iniles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle-. 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a Avattle 

O' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble ^ttie-lan^, 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March-weathej^ 
Hae tum'd sax rood b 'side our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fiiskit. 
But tliy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fiU'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r, 
'Till spritty knows wad rair't aud risket. 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an snaws were deep. 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timraer; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit. 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleiigh is now thy baim-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mac, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst ^ 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst^ 

Monie a sair daurk we twa ha wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty ser^-anV 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
Au' thy auld days may end in starvin, 
For my last fau^ 
Kk 



m 



POEM$. 



A heapit stimpart, I'll reserye ane 
Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegitherj 
We'll toyte about w i' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

On turning up her nest rvith the plough, 
November 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'riug pattle .' 

I'm truly sorrj- man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-bom companion, 
AtC fellow-mortal .' 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou matm live .' 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't I 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggagt gi*een ! 
An' bleali December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell and keen I 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
'Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble .' 
:Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In -pvoxm^ foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gly. 
An' lea's us nought but grief and pain, 

Forpromis'djoy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' TM ! 
't\fi. present only toucheth thee ; 



But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

Oi) prospects drear t. 

An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 

A WINTER NIGHT. 

Poor naked -wretches, loheresd'er you are^ 
That bid the pelting of this ftityless storrti ! 
Hoxo shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 
Tour looped and windowed raggedtiess, defend you. 

From seasons such as these F 

Shakspeare, 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Bim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the stoinn the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked. 

Wild-eddjing swirl. 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' Avinnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle^ 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What conies o' thee? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing-. 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-staiu'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd^ 

My heart forgtts. 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phcebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark mufll'd, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crouding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in ray soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole— 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ? 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man be- 
stows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad Ainbition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-bounds from tlie slip, 
Woe, Want, and Murder e'er a land I 



POEMS. 



-2.59 



Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
TiTith, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How paniper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With loi-dly Honour's lofty brow. 
The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name. 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone I 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey- 
To love-prctcnding snares, 
This boasted Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking 
blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what jourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep. 
While thro' tlie ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine 1 
Guilt, ei'ring man, relenting view 1 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!'* 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleep 

Shook off the pouthery snaw. 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my niind— 

Tliro' all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles Cod. ' 



EPISTLE 
TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET*. 



January 



And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the driff, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' g^ft, 
That live sae bicn an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

IL 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r. 
To keep, at times, frae being sovr. 
To see how things are shar'd ; ^ 
How best o' chiels are whiles in wanf^ 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, no fear na'*,i' 
Auld age ne^er mind a feg^ 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only for to beg. 



To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thiii. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'u then, sometimes we'd snatch a taslt 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a* 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still; 

A comfort this nae sraa' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then^ 
Nae farther can we fa'. 



IV. 

What tho', like commonei-s of air, 
We wander out, we know not wher^ 

But either house or hal' ? 
Yet nature's «harms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming fioods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the grouncjj 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will boun^ 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till'ft, 
And sing't when we hae done. 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doocs wi' driving snaw, 

* David SiUar, one of the club at l'arboltou,and 
author of a volume of poems in the Scottish 
dialect. E- 



It's HO in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 



Piamsav. 



26Q 



POEMS. 



To purchase peace and rest ; 
Its no in makin muckle mair ; 
Its no in books ; its no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae tx-easures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang- ; 
The heart aye's the part aye. 
That makes us right or wrang* 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, 

Wi" never-ceas^ing toil ; 
Think ye, are we le->s blest than they, 
Wha scaicely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ,' 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses. 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get theve, 
Ye'U find nae other where. 

VIII. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad vvrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest). 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Te hae your Meg, your dearest part. 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me. 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame I 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more df ar iinraortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear .' 



When heart-corroding care and grifef 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thom}"- ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend 

In eveiy care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phcebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

'Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp. 
And rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 

Occasioned by the unfortunate issue- 

OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of 7ooe ; 

Home. 

I. 

thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan unwarining beam ; 

And mourn in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dreanj. 

n. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
1 joyless view thy trembling horn, 
Reflected in the gurgling rill c 



POEMS. 



411 



.My fondly-fluttcrjiig heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

Tot ever bar retui-ning peace I 

III. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe— Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested pow'rs above ; 
The promis''d father''s tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love 1 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown \ 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone 1 
And must I think it ! is she gone, 

My seci*et lieait's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless Jiear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover pait, 

The plighted husband of her youth : 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rougli distress !* 
Then, who her pa;igs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows shai'e, and make them less ? 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Youc-dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void. 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'i-j- ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a xvish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
1 see the hours in long array. 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen Recollection's direful traiji, 
Must wring m> soul, ere Phcebus, low^, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 
And when my nightly couch I tiy, 

Sore-harass"'d out with care and gi'ief , 
My toil-l)eat nerves, and tear-wom eye, 

Keej) watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore afllight : 
Ev'n day all-bitter brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

O ! thou bright queen, who o'er tli' expanse. 
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 



Oft has thy silent-marking glance 
Obsei-v'd us fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 

The time, unheeded, spi>d away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 

Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray 
To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance seti 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I buni .' 
!From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander tliro* ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



AN ODE. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd witli care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weaxy road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view. 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
AVhat sorrows yet may pierce me thro", 
Too justly I may fear! 
Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er.. 
But with the closing tomb ! 



Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end''s deny'd. 
Yet while ihe busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same. 
You bustling, and j ustling, 

Forget each grief iuid pain : 
I listless, yet restless. 

Find every prospect vain. 

III. 

IIow blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting-, all-forgot 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling root- 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant broughlg 
A faint collected dream • 
While pi-aising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, ineand'ring. 
He yiews the solemn sky. 



26e 



POEMS. 



IV. 
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
"Where never human footstep trat'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not^ 

Or human love or hate, 
"Whilst I here must cry here^ 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

V. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's ma^gi 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or tlie crimes. 

Of others, or my own I 
Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sporf, 

Like linnets in tlie bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim-declining age ! 



WINTER. 



J DIRGE. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

Inscribed to R. A****, Esq. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 

I. 

INly lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected friend! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end. 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What A**** in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far liappier there I 
ween ! 

II. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re-' 
pose: 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 
TJiis night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes^ 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weai-y, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 



'the wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy nortli sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the bum comes dowQ. 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 

II. 

*' The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*," 

The joyless winter-day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

in. 

Thou Poiv^r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou gi-ant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 

* Dr. Young. 



III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant 7vee-things, toddlin, stacher thro* 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie 7vijie''s 
smile. 
The lisping infant prattling on liis knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite fox-get his labour an' his toil. 

IV. 

Belj-ve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At ser\ice out, amang the farmers i-oun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny woman grown. 

In youthf u' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gowi^ 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet? 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 



POEItfS, 



263 



'JTRe parents, partial, eye their hopef\il >-ears ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
" An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway i 

An' mind your dutij, duly, morn, an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright .'" 

VIL 
But hark I a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame< 
The wily motlier sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny'' s e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-sU'uck anxious care, enquires his 



While Jenny hafiiins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 



Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenling rulli, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction 
wild ? 

XI. 

l&wt now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The healsome Ijarritcli, chief o' Sctttia's food : 
The soupe their only hmokic does aft'ord, 

That 'yout the halhiii snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimeutal mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kehbuck, fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' thfc 
bell. 

XIL 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round tlie ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha^-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glidej 

He wales a portion with judicious care; 
And " Let us ivorship God!" he says, with solemn 
air. 



VIIL 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's 
eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 
The youngsters artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
the lave. 

IX. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare I 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me tliis declare — 
'* If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, 
^eneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'n.- 
ing gale." 

X. 

Is there, in hmnan form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch i a villain ! lost to love and truth! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaxing art, 
JBefray sweet Jenny^s unsuspecting youth ? 



XIII. 

They chaunt their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim : 
Perhaps Dundce''s wild warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the hcav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia^s holy la)s : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise,; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek''s ungracious progeny ; 
Or how tlie royal bard did groaning lye 

Beneatli the stroke of heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job'^s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fii*e ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred Ijtc. 

XV. 

Perliaps the Christian vohnne is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he, who lone in Patinas banished, 

Saw in tlie sun a miglity ang^-1 stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom prouounc'J by 
hcnv'n's comuraud. 



26^ 



P0EM3i 



xyi. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaveii's eternal king. 

The saint, the father, and the husband pvnys : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing*," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together h>Tnning their Crcator''s praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear, 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations \vide. 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
The pow^r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous sti'ain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the 
soul; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

XVIII. 
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to heaven the warm request 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
• And decks the lily fair in flew'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
Mat, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine pre- 
side. 

XIX. 
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God;'''' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is 
sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may heaven their simple lives prevent 

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er cron-ns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
An^ stand a wall of five around their mtich-lov'd 
i'Sle. 

XXL 

O Thou! who pouv'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' IVallace's undaunted 
heart ; 

* I I I ■ ■ « » — I I 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die tlie second glorious part, 
' (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !} 
O never, nevei*, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 



aiAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

I. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,- 

And hoary was his hair. 

IL 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to moura 

The miseries of man. 

iir. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! while in thy early years. 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 



Look not alone on youthful prime,. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
INIan then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and soitows worn. 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VL 

A few seem favourites of fate, 
In pleasure's hip carest ; 



POEMS. 



MS 



Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh .' what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VII. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame .', 
More pointed still we make ourselve*, 

Regret, remorse, and shame .' 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands moui'n .' 

VIII. 
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his \ovdly felloiv-ivorm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm des-ign'd 5-on lordling's slavq, 

By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will alfd pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

X. 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 



II. 

If I Iiave wander'd in those patHs 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breas\, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

III. 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ! 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have, 
But Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZA9 ON THE SAME OCCASION, 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between ; 

Some gleams of sunsliine mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my tet-rors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul oflfence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense^ 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mouru'd, yet to temptation 



XI. 

O death ! the poor man's dearest friend^ 

The kindest and the best \ 
Welcome the hour ray aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the ragping sea : 
With that controuling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious i)assions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me witli thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



A PRAYER 
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

I. 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 



Lying at a reverend friend^s house one night, tfie 
author left the following 

VERSES 

In the room where he slept. 

O thou dread Pow'r, who reigu'st above ! 
I know thou wilt me hear : 
LI 



266 

When for this scene of peace and lore. 
I make my pray'r sincere. 



II. 

The hoary sire—the mortal stroke, 
Lo!ig, long, be pleas 'd to spare ■ 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are, 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspi-ing eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darliag youth, 

In manliood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish. 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry han^, 

Guide thou their steps alway. 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast. 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in heav'n J 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store; 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore : 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Wliich by the streamlets grow ; 

Tht tniitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble tost, 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hi^ih giv'ii them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



POEMS, 



A PRAYER 

Under t/ie pressure of violent anguish, 

O Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are aU thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ilh that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES 
OF THE NINETIETH PSALM, 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place I 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself, 

Arose at thy coumiand ; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, mau^, 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought!" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r. 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



POEMS, 



^N7 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



TO RUIN. 



On turning one doivn with the plough, in 
April, 1786. 

"VVee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met rae in an cvii liour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy sleiidtT stem ; 
To spare thee now is past nij' pow'r, 

Thou twnnie g«m. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, compaDion meet ! 
Bending thee 'maug the dewy weet ! 

Wi' speckl'd breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
VS^atk thy early, bumble birth ; 
Tet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender fonn. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or staue, 
Adorns the histie stibble-Jield, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies | 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet ^ow'ref of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
"Till she, like thee, all soii'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Oi prudent lore, 
'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering -worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning di-iv'n, 

To nxis'ry's brink. 
'Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine— no distant date ; 
Stei-n ruin's plough-share drives, elate. 
Full on thy bloom, 
'Till crush'd beneath the fun-ow's weighs, 
Shall be thy doom 1 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destructioii-breathing word 

The mighuest empires full ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delightcd train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tiCf 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'niug 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a. pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's pr»y'r ! 
No more I shrink appal'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this sceue of care I 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life''a joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbii;g cease. 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS 

As a New Tear's Gift, Jatu 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n. 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime. 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you. 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

May , 1786. 



I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 
Than just a kind memento; 



But how the subject-theme may gang. 
Let time and chance determine ; 

Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

II. 

Ye'U try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Jndrev} dear, believe me, 
Te'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 
"•"N^^ Ev'n when your end's attained : 
And a' your views may coiue to nought, 
Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 
I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och, mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

Its rarely right adjusted 1 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet nae hae cash to spare him» 

V. 

Aye free, afF ban' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weei's ye catt 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I wave the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VIL 

To catch dame fortune's golden SBoile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Nor for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 



POEM* 



VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 
To baud the wivtcb in order ; 

But where ye feel your honour grip. 
Let that ayt bt your border : 

Its slightest touches, iiistaju pause- 
Debar a" sidt pretences ; 

And resolutely keep its laws, 
Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sui'e become the creature j 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits prophane to range. 

Be complaisance extei»ded ; 
An atheist's laugh's a poor ezchan^ 

For Deity oft'ended 1 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring-j 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'Dj 

A conscience but a canker— 
A con-cspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

XL 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunted J 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed,! 

Still daily to grow >viser: 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIi^S. 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come muuioi wi' me ! 
Our billie''s gien us a' jink, 

An' owre the s«a. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he"ll join the mernj roar^ 

In social key; 
For now he's taen anither shore. 

An' owre the sea J 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their Al&v petitions place him: 
The widows, wives, an' a' juaj bless him, 

W tearfu' e'e ;. 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss liira 

That's owre the sea ! 



I'OEMS^ 



O fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 

Hadst thou taen art' some drowsy bumble, 

Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 

But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, cantie Kxjle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureat monie a year, 

That's owre the sea J 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-rvest 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be J 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
>Vi' his proud, independent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hanimocky 
An' owre the seav 

He ne'er was gien to gjeat misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 
He dealt it free ; 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 
That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owi-e the sea. 



His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reukin, rich ! 

Then hom for horn they stretch an' strive^ 
Dcil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout. 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect seonner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
On sic a dinner 1 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nievo a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash» 

O how unfit 1 

But mark the rustic, luiggis-fed. 
The tremWing earth resounds his tread. 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' head will sned. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your cai-e.. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a haggis I 



Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hillie J 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'H toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
"Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning ti-encher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
fonvpin wad help to mend a mill 
In time o' need, 
Wiaie thr©' yoar pores the dew s distil 
Like amber bead. 



A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'riji dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid. 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're sirnam'd like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd— and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do— maun do, sir, wi' there wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou j 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, / can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin^ 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 



2r0 POEMS^ 

The poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
1 wimia lie, come what will o' me,) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just— nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it. 
What aince he says he winna break i t ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
'Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heai-d of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-ti-on : 
It's just a carnal incliaation. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain .' 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust Ls 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No— stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a ivinnock fi-ae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door ; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 



O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n^ 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and erroi-, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath. 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets 'till heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 



Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 



So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my works I did review. 
To dedicate them, sir, to you : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them sometluug like yoursel. 



Then patronize them wi' your favour. 
And your petitioner shall ever— — 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each ir man's prayer. 
That kens or hears about you, sir— — 



" May ne'er misfortune's growling barfc 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May K******'s fair-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
'Till H*******s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses i-ound their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel I 
May health and peace, with mutual rays. 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
'Till his wee curlie John'^s ier-oe, 
When edding life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 



I will not wind a lang conclusion 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 



} 



} 



But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly himj 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant tlien no more; 
For who would humbly serve the poor I 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is g^ven, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gashing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear. 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, sir, your hand— my/r/enrf and brother ! 



POEMS. 



an 



TO A LOUSE, 

On seeing one on a lady^s bonnet, at church. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 
Your iaipudence protects you sairly: 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinnei' 
On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sp' wl, and sprattle 
\Vi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now baud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatl'rils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

'Till ye'vfc got on it. 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' misi''s bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set jour nose out, 
As plump and gray as onie grozet; 
O for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red siiteddum, 
I'd g^e you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na been surprls'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's Hainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But miss's fine lunardi < fie. 

How dare ye do't ! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin! 
Thae -winks and Jxngcr-ends , I dread, 

Are notice takin I 

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us .' 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia''s darling seat ! 

All bail thy p<ilaces and tow'rs. 
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 



From marking wildly-scatter'd flowVs, 
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy hunour'd shade. 

II. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labours plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their soui'ces fail ! 

And never envy blot their name I 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn I 

Gay as the gilded summer sky^ 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ' 

V. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rougli rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 

VI. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying teal's, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia''s kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam f 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas j ust I 

VII. 
Wild beats my heart to trace j'^our steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia'' s bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n /, who sing in rustic lore, 

Hai)ly my sires have left their shed. 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where your fathers led .' 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia^s darling seat ! 
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 



272 



POKMS. 



"Where once beneath a monarch's feet 
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1st, 1785. 

"While briers an' woodbines budding g^'eeil, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin, 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was rauckle fun an' jo kin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 

There M-as ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind cliiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel. 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and gralth, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To heai- your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell. 



I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rouglj. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am naepoet, in a sense. 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse fi'ae prose. 

To make a sang /" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made yon fools. 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools. 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
By dint o' Greek I 

Gie me ae spark of nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart. 
My muse, though haraely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan'' s glee. 
Or Fergusson^s, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik% my friend to be. 

If I can hit it I 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 
If I oould get it. 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 M-inna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends and folks that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me ; 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae tveefaut they whiles lay to mq, 
I like the lasses— Gude forgie mei 
For monie a plack they wlieedle frae me. 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 



POEMS. 



273 



But Maiichline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discliarge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ivare 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 
To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think tkat ha^-ins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 



" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sac friendly. 
Yet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly ?" 

Sae I get paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in tlie ink : 
Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it !'* 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, b"ut whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rii^htly neither, 

Let time mak proof j 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean afF-loof. 



But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 



My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' cai^, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch 1 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; 
She's but a b-tch. 



But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and sers'ant. 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21st, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattling the corn out-o\vre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 
I would na wiite. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
- She's saft at best, and sometliing lazj', 
Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy 

This month an' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
An' something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

JBut rhyme it right. 



She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin I could striddle owre a rig; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the tinimer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the Idttle kiramer, 
/, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent 
Behint a kist to lie and skleat, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 
And muekle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie^ s name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sai'k an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane^ 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks ? 

" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adi-ift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride !" 

Were tliis the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Mm 



POEMS. 



Damnation then wauld be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, tbftnks to Heav'n, tliat's no ilie gate 
We leai*n our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 

When first the human race began, 

" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 

"Tis he fulfils great Natuvc^s plan. 

An' none but he /" 

O mandate glorious and divine J 
The followers of the ragged nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl. 
Their worthfess nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



TO W. S*»***N< 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

t gat your letter, winsome Willie; 
VfV gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie. 

Your flatterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelens sklented 

On my poor Mu»ie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

i\Iy senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allen, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The bi-aes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer-ehiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 
ihe tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry .') 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like lo he my dead, 

(O sad disease!) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain» 
She's gotten poets o' her ain. 
Chiels wha their chaiittrs winna hain, 

But tune their lays 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth Ins while, 
To set her name in measur'd stile ; 
She lay like some unken'd-of isle 

Beside Neiv-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
feied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Tarroia an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
Nae body sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila''s plains an' fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace'^ name what Scottish blooil 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace'' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 

Oi- glorious dy'd. 

O sweet are Colla''s haughs an' woods^ 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Tlieir loves enjoy, 
While tliro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry I 

Ev'n winter bleak has channs to me 
When winds rave thro' tJne naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'niiig the day I 

O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae cltarms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 
Wi' life an' light, 



POEMS. 



275 



Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dai*k night ! 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
'Till by himsel he learn'd to wandex-, 
Adown some trotting biu-n's meander, 
An' no think lang; 

sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang I 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature^s face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, ''my rhyme-composing britherl" 
We've been OAvre lang unkeiin'd to ither : 
NoH let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra lirma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice. 

In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My memoi-j-'s no worth a preen ; 

1 had amaist forgotten clean, 

Te bade me write you what they mean 
By this nCTv-light* , 

'Bout whicJi our herds sae aft hae been 
Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains tlieir speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans 
Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon^ 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shoitly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. 
An' out o' sight, 



See note, p. 243. 



An', backlins-comin, to tlie leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was Jeny'd, it was afiirm'd ; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were infonn'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands. 
An' auld light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took tlie sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought tliem ruin'd stick-an-stowe, 
'Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'U find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light Jlocks are bleatin r 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin : 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly He'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ' 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' baUoojis, 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay ae montli amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I tJiink they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk latin splatter 

In log^c tuizie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. R*«***», 

INCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude, ready-witted R******, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin ! 



2/6 



POEMS. 



There's monie godly folks are tliinkin, 

Your dreams* an' tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drunken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thi'o'. 

HjTJOcrisy, in mercy spare it I 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ; 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
Rives't aiF their hack. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
It's just the biue-gozvn badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain 'd for an' niair ; 
Sae, whan ye hae au hour to spare, 

I will expect, 
Yon sangf, ye'U sen't wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spi-ing. 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 



An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear.' 

The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 
For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begin to ci-y, 
L— d, I'se hae sportin by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame 1 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scai'ce thro' the feathers 3 
An' baith a yellow George to claim. 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
'Bvit pennyworths again is fair, 

When times expedient ; 
Meantime I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient. 



.JOHN BARLEYCORN^ 
A BALLAD. 

I. 

There was three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 
An' brought a patrick to the grun, 
A bonnie hen, 
And^ as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I sti-aikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-me-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the/<?e. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale. 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 

* A certain humorous dream of his was then 
making a noise in the couutiy-side. 
t A song he had promised the author. 



IL 

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

IIL 

But the chearful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 

And he grew thick and strong. 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

V. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild. 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 



* This is partly composed on the plan of an old 
song known by the same name. 



VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To shew their deadly rage. 

VII. 

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

VIII. 
They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm. 

And tuni'd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John BarleycoiTi, 

There let him sink or swim. 

X. 
They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe. 
And stilt, as sig^s of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

XI. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The maiTow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all. 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

XII. 

And they hae taen his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

XIV. 

'Twill make a man forget liis woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 
Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



POEMS. 

Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 
And in the sea did jaw, man ; 

An' did nae less, in full congress, 
Than quite refuse our law, mdn. 

II. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie^s burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Qiiebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in band, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 



III. 

Poor Tammy Gage within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
'Till Willie Howe took o'er the know6 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at Nerv-Tork, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 



IV. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

'Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cormvallis fought as lang's he dought. 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton''s glaive frae rust to save 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



V. 

Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa, man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charley Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



VI. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man : 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North an' Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 



277 



A FRAGMENT. 

Tune, " Gillicrankie.'' 

I. 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, 
And did our hellim thraw, man, 

Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 
Within America, man * 



VII. 
Then clubs an' hearts were CharUe''s cartel. 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
'Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sa\v faux pas, man: 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !'' 



Qn 



POEMS. 



VIII. 

Behind the thi'one then Grenvillc's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
"While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-nortli the Roxnan wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man,) 
"Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man 1" 

IX. 

But, word and Wow, North, Fox, and Co, 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
'Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man, 
An' Caledon threw by the drone. 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

Tune, " Corn rigs are bonfiie.' 

I. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tenlless heed, 

'Till 'tween the'late and early ; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me tlii-o' the barley. 

II. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

III. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley I 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ', 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear ; 

I hae been happy thinking : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' bai'ley. 



CHORUS. 

Corn rigs, an'' barletj rigs^ 
ArV corn rigs are bonnie : 

ril ne''er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs tvV Annie. 



SONG, 

Composed in August. 
Tune, " / had a horse, I had nae mair.^'' 

I. 

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night. 

To muse upon my charmer. 

II. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains: 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitai'y wander ; 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion 1 

IV. 

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's cleai-. 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us su-ay our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature : 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 

And ev'ry happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

'Till the sUent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love tliee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



POEMS. 



279 



SONG. 

Tune, " My Nanie, 0." 

I. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd. 
And I'll awa to Nanie, O, 

II. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shili ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal. 

An' owre the hills to Nanie, O. 

III. 

My Name's charming, sweet, an' young j 
Nae aitfu' wiles to win ye, O : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nanie, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O ; 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nanie, O. 

V. 

A country lad is my degi*ee. 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O. 

VII. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; 

But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh. 
An' has nae care but Nanie, O. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 



GREEN GROWS THE RASHES. 
A FRAGMENT. 

CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, ; 

Green grow the rashes, ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent 

Are speyit among the lasses, 0. 



Originally, Stinchar. 



There's nought but care on ev'ry ban', 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O : 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O ! 

Green grow, &c. 

II. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may flee them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

Green grow, Sec.. 

III. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arms about my dearie, O, 
An' warly cai-es, an' warly men, 

May a' gang tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, &Ci 

IV. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, Sic. 

V. 

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest woi'k she classes, O : 

Her prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, See. 



SONG. 

Tune, "■ Jockei/s grey hreeks."' 

I. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze 

All fx'eshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS*. 

And maun I still on Menief cloat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e .' 

For it's Jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be ! 

II. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, Set. 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a 
gentleman ui Edinburgli, a particular friend of 
the author's. 

t Me?ue is the common abbreviation of 3f/7. *' 
avine. 



£80 



POEMS. 



III. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life 10 me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, 8iC. 

IV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest bat I. 

A7id maun I still, &c. 

V. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

VI. 

And wben the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun 1 still &c. 



Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
VThere many a daiiger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

III. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila^s hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those~ 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



SONG. 



VII. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe ray chearless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat. 
And bear the scorn thafs in her e'e / 

For it''s jet,jet black, and ifs like a haivk^ 
An'' it ivinna let a body be*. 



Tune, " Gilderoy.'^ 

I. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide. 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ; 



SONG. 

Tune, " Roslin Castle:'' 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Aijr. 

II. 

The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 

* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems 
of our bard, and more especially those printed 
under his own direction; yet it is to be regretted 
that this chorus, which is not of his own composi- 
lior., should be attached to these fine stanzas, as it 
perpetually interrupts the train of sentiment 
which ihey excite. E. 



II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh .' 



THE FARE^VELL, 

To the Brethren of St. James* s Lodges 

TARBOLTON. 

Tune, " Goodnight andjoy be ivV you c'." 

I. 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye ! 
Ye favour'd, ye eiilighteii'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Foi'tune's slidd'ry ba'. 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 



FOEMS. 



28i 



Oft have I met your social band, 

A^id spent the chcarful, festive night ; 
Oft, houour'd with supreme cummaiid, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but n-aftsmen ever saw 1 
Strong meni'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' j 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's larv, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear I 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear J 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the bard that^sfar awa''. 



SONG. 

Tune, " Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern 
let's Jly.'' 

I. 
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business contriving a snare. 
For a big-beily'd bottle 's the whole of my care, 

II. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasai^it. tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here. 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

III. 

Here passes the squire on his brother— his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you the croivn how it waves in the air, 
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

IV. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle 's a cure for all care. 

V. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 



VI. 

" Life's cares they are oomfoits*"— a maxim laid 

down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore th« 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with' th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 



WRITTEN IN 
FRIARS-CAKSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scafe ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy' hold, 
While chearful peace, with linnet song. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought , 
And teach the sportive younkers rouml, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 



Young': 



Night Thoughts. 
Nn 



POE"]NlS. 



Tell them, and press it on their niinJ, 
As.thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment Hes ; 
TJiat foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shah ne'er awake, 
Nig-ht, where dawn shall never break, 
'Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy uukno^vn before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide I 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



} 



ELEGY 

ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A gentlenian rvho held the patent for his honours 
immediately from Almighty God! 

But no7v his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His sovl was HI c the glorious sun. 
And matchless Heav^7ily Light.' 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee liamt to his black sraiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides I 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OF . 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation mark ! 
Who in widow weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse,. 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took— but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblcst ; 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest 



,} 



He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er Avas bom ! 
Thee, Matthew. Natux-e's sel shall moui-n 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neeboi-s o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns I 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers I 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
My wailing numbers I 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens f 
Ye hazly $haN\ s and briery dens .' 
Ye buruies, wimpliu down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Frae liu to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee j 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The fii'st o' flow'rs. 



ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A Mhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? 
No fallen angeL hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd lo share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies, 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a- year ? 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as lie is here ? 
O, bitter mockery of tl^e pompous bier. 
While down the wiveifiheA vital part is driv'n ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes lo Heav'n. 



At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouss that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty cools, and speckled teals. 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, 'till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 



POEMS. 



283 



Monrn, clam'nng ci*aiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual \say 

Fi-ae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, uha lies in clay, 

WhaJn w'e deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae j'our ivy bow'r, 

In some auld tree or eldritcli tow'r, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glowr. 

Sets up her horn, 

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

'Till waukrife morn ! 

O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains i 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales -of woe ; 

And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year .' 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, sinmiei-, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' tlie air 

T]»c roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! 
Mouni, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's taen his flight. 
Ne'er to return. 

O, Henderson .' the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever I 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 
Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state 1 
But by thy honest turl I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story 's brief, 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spum'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor maii. 



If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart ; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst thi-ow uncomhion light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise. 
For Matthew was a bright man* , 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit. and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer n>au. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 

OF MAR!'- QUEEN OF SCOTS 
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Plicebus chears the crystal streams. 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

I'hat fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

Maj rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'e« : 



d8« 



POEMS. 



And I'm the sovVeign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in fortign bands, 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' bahii that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! ray son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine : 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'tr wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, my summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn i 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow com ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next ttow'rs, that deck the spring. 

Bloom on my peaceful grave, 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a. pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ' 
(It soothes poor misery, barkening to her tale), 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade. 

Thou, nature, partial nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground ; 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell.— 
Thy minions, kings defend, controul, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.— 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug. 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But O ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 
To thy pool-, fenceless, naked child— the bard 1 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an ideot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claM s to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 



No horns, but those by luckless Hyraen woni» 

And those, alas ! not Amalthea's honi : 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics— appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the path of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monros ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart, by causeless wanton malice wrung, 
By blockhead's daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life. 
'Till fled each hope tliat once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd pagpe. 
He heeds or feels no moi'e the ruthless critic' 
rage ! 



ir'd, 

...1 

ic s r 



So by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling cui-s a dainty feast; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest I 

Thy sons ne'er m.idden jn the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or ton-id beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage he.-n thus easy "picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallai-d a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And Just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, i-elentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear .' 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, , 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears^ 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 

O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! 
Fintra, my other staj-, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down 
May bliss dovicstic smooth his private patJ 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death 



■Hth, C 
■ath! y 



POEMS. 



285 



LAMENT 
FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing^ beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikl^ pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him oai an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white with time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tiin'd his dol«"ful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their cares, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a^ the winds 

The honours of the aged year! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'U charm the ear and c'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And ray last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in ray room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last, (the sum of a my griefs) \ 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forvvai'd wing for ever fled, 

" Awake thy last sad voice, ray harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair I 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

Tliat fillest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 



" In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round : 
Though oft I rurn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning smi 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song. 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why l»as worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time • 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prims! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ? 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



LINES 

Sent to sir John IVhiteford, of IVhiteford, bait, 
ivith the foregoing poem. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy mind''s reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart. 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn 'till we too go as he has gone. 
And tread the dreary path to tliat dark world um- 

knowB. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of bro7i-nyis and of bogylisfull in this bukc. 
Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street. 
And drouthy neebors, neebon meet. 
As market-days are wearing late. 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappj^, 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, Avaters, slaps, and styles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanfcr, 
As he frae Ayr ae nig^ll did canter, 



286 



POEMS. 



(Auld Ayi* Mham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise^ 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum j 
That frae November 'till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as long as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L— d's house, ev'n on ^tinday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean 'till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By AUou-a'fs auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage ad\'ices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale: Ae market night. 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tarn loe'd him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on w i' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was gfi'owing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man so happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy, 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasui'e. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tain was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in tJie river, 
A moment white— then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm."^ 
Kae man can tether tinie or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tani maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
That dreai-j- hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blown its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness svvallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 



That niglit, a child might understantl. 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Ta-iH skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and ram, and fire ; , 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet . 
Wliiles glow'ring i-ound wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.— 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks andmeikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro" the whins, and by the caira, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mango's mither hang'd hersel.— 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUorvay seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 

Inspiring bold Jolin Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn] 
Wi' tipenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil !— 
The swats sae reani'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a hoddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventur'd forward 0:1 the light ; 
And, -vow ! Tani saw an unco sight ; 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reel*, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A wiimock bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was liis charge : 
He screw 'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
'Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 
Cofiins stood round like open presses ; 
That shaw"'d the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each iu his cauld hand held a light.— 
By which heroic Tain was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his aiu son o' life bereft. 
The grey hairs jet stack to the heft ; 



VOEMS. 



287 



Wi" mail- o' horrible and awfu\ 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tflimrnieglow'rd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun g^rew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the \\[ark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam^ O Tarn ! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping;, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off mj liuvdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, * 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kend what was what fu' brawlie. 
There was ae winsome wench and wawlie. 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith mtikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 
Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ("twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wuig maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch 'd^ 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; 
'Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his i-eason a' thegitlier, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark I" 
And in an instant all was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 



Ah, Tarn ! Ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the kcy-stane* of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail n»ay toss, 
A running stream she dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane they eoiild make. 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far above the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maygie prest. 
And flew at Tain wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie''^ mettle — 
Ae spring brought oft' her master hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail: 
The carlin claiight her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale of truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tain o' Shanterh mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP B\ 

ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST 

SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little of that life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! ; . 
The shelteiing i-ushes whistling o'er thy head. 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by wimling Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawu, ; 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn th) hap- 
less fate. 



As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop! she starts before their nose ; 
As eagf r runs the market-crowd. 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 



* It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any 
«n'il s])ir;(s, have no power to follow a poor 
wight any farther than the middle of the next 
running stream.— It may be proper likewise to 
mention to the benighted traveller, that when ht- 
falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in 
his going forward, there is much more hazard in 
f urning back. 



288' 



POEMS. 



ADDRESS 

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

On crowning his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, 
■with bays. 

While virj^in Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds lier tender mantle green. 
Or pranks tlie sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Hei-e sowter **** in death does sleep ; 

To h-11. if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a blath'rin b-tch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY, 

Hicjacet wee Johnnie, 

Whoe'er thou art, O, reader, know, 
That death has niurder'd Johnnie ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 

Tor saxil he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUl'HORS FATHER. 

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride j 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side*." 



FOR R. A. ESQ. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. ESQ. 

The poor^an weeps— here G n sleeps. 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav^d or 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among:, 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by I 
But, with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause— and, through the starting tear. 
Survey this griave. 

The poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer fiame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend— whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, se/f-controul 

Is wisdom's root. 



Goldsuiith. 



POEMS. 



289 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

Peregrinations thro'' Scotland, collecting the 
antiquities of that kingdom. 

irear, land o' cakes, and briiher Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's araang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a line, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel— 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 



But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him,; 
A^d port, port .' shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see hiip ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by tlie nose, 

Wad say, shame fa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 



By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin*, 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 
Its ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L— d safe's ! colleaguin 
At some black art.— 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamoi-, 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll qualie at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

Its tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade. 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the— antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jiiiglin jacketsf, 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 
Before the flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's firc-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

C Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, presented to 
her by the author. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never niay'st tliou. lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view^ 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
'Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland ringSj 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earUj 
The loveliest foi-ra she e'er gave birth 



SONG. 



Forbye, he'll shape you af f u' gleg 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg. 

Or lang-kail gtillie.— 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland, 
t Vide his Treatise on a,ncient armour and 
weapon*. 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovejy fair. 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much i« sight of Heav'n. 
Go 



290 



POEMS. 



ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE IffiATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 

Brother to a young lady, a particular friend of 
the author^s. 

Sad thy tale, ihou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death teai's the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's mom 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. • 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung t 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there sh?ll blow. 

And fear no witheinng blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last* 



THE HUMBLE PETITION O^ 
BRUAR WATER* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My loi'd, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams« 

lu flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts. 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

Thej- near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they liuger lang, 

I'm scorchiiig up so shallow. 
They're left the whiteiiing stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 



* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly pic- 
turesque and beautiful ; but their effect is much 
impaired by the want of trees and ^rubs-. 



Last day I grat wi* spile and teen, 

As poet B***» came by, 
That, to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was, he shor'd me ; 
But had I in ray glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,- 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes^ 

Wild-roaring o'er a limi : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my liighest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wildj 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird sti-ong, the lintwhite cleai\ 

The ma^is mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This, too, a covert shall ensure. 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'i-s shuU vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arras 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some rausing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let loftj- firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' M-at'ry bed .' 



EOEMS. 



291 



Let fragrant birks hi woodbines tTcest 

My craggy- cliffs adorn ; 
And, for iJie little song^ster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling: hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring-, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses. 
The grace be—" Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 
IN LOCH-TURIT, 

A nvild scene among the hills of Qughtertyre» 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your vvat'ry haunt fopsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?— 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave^ 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your feare I trace. 
]Man, your proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitj-ing heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane— 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains. 
Where the mo^sy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scoi*d ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his sfavc. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

Over the chimney-piece, in the parlour of the 

Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth, 

Admiring nature in her wildest graee. 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace^ 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheejj^ 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.— 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace rising on his verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste > 
The hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
Thie village, glittering in the noontide bea!n~ 



Poetic ardors in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods j 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.— 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck grief might heav'nward stretch 

her scan. 
And injuB'd worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

Standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

'Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 

Where, tliro' a shapeless breach, his sti-eam re- 
sounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep recoiling surges foam below. 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 

And viewless echo's eajr, astonish'd, rends. 

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 
show'rs. 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 

Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 

And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils— 



292 



POEMS. 



ON THE BIRTH 



OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress. 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' raeikle love, 

And v\ ard o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move;, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hjrples o'er the lea, 

C-hill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gaue, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw. 

May he, the fi-iend of woe and want, 

Who heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant', 

And heal heV cruel wounds. 



Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before raentioii- 
ed, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel 
of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir 
Walter's.— On Friday, the I6th of October, 1790, 
at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more con- 
tended for, as related in the ballad, by the present 
Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, 
Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and repre- 
sentative of Walter Riddel, v/ho won the whistle, 
and in whose fiunily it had continued ; and Alex- 
ander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last 
gentleman carried oif the hard-won honours of 
the field. 

I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the north, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. 
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda*, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 
' This whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get 

o'er. 
And drink them to hell, sir ! or ne'er see me 

more !^' 



But late she fiourish'd, rooted fast. 
Fair on the summer morn : 

Now feebly bends she, in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruflian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land. 



Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

'Till Robert, the lord of the cairn and the 
scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the whistle is 
curious, I shall here give it.— In the train of Ann 
of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our 
James the sixth, there came over also a Danish 
gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, 
and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a 
little ebony whistle, which, at the commencement 
of the orgies, he laid on the table ; and whoever 
was last able to blow it, every body else being 
disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry 
oif the whistle as a trophy of \'ictory. The Dane 
produced credentials of his victories, without a 
single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- 
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty 
courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots 
Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferi- 
ority. — After many overthrows on the part of the 
Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert 
Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present 
v^orthy baronet of that name ; who after three 
days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scan- 
dinavian under the table, 

And blew on the -whistle his requiem shrill. 



Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
'Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joj'ous good fellows, with hearts clear of 
flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Gleniiddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, \vith a tongue smooth as 
oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel 
replies, 
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
" I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie Moref, 
" And bumpei' his horn with liini twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe— or his friend. 
Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field. 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. 

* See Ossian's Caric-thura. 

t See Johnson's tour to the Hebrides. 



POEMS. 



293 



To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovel-y 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew tlie tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
'Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well Avore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swoi-e 'twas the way that their ancestor did. 

Then worthy Grenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A liigh-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend ? 
Though fate said— a hero should jjerish in light ; 
So uprose bright Phcebus-and down fell the knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink :— 
" Craigdarroch, thoul't soar when creation shall 

sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come— one bottle more— and have at the sublime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for freedom 
with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine he the bay ; 
Tlie field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day !" 

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET*. 

Auld Nibor, 

I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, 
published at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before 
appeared in our author's printed poenrs. 



Tho' I raalin »ay't, I doubt ye flatter, 
Ye spiak sac fair ; 

For ray puir, silly, rhyiuin' clattor 

Some less maun ser. 



Hale be your heart, hale bo your fiddle"; 
Lang may your elbuck jink aiid diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
'Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray haira. 



But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif its sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket. 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, 
Rivin the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drinH, 

\Vi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late,, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' mart, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever thinks 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' li\iu', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put. the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin', 

An' fash nae mair. ^ 



Leeze me on rhyme ! it's ay a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel, at wark or leisure, 

The niuse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 
She's seldom lazy. 



Hand to the muse, my dainty DaA-ie : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie 

Frac door to door. 



APPENDIX 



IT may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of the history' of the preceding poejns, on wjjich 
the celebrity of our bard has been hitherto foumted ; and with this view the following 
extract is made from a letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our poet, and his friend and confi- 
dant from his earliest years. 



Dear sir, • Mossgitt, 2d AprU, 1798. 

Your letter of the 14th of March I received 
in due course, but from the hun-y of the season 
have been hitherto hindered from answering it. 
1 will now try to give you what satisfaction I can 
in regard to the particulai*s you mention. I 
cannot pretend to be very accurate in respect to 
the dates of the poems, but none of them, except 
Winter, a Dirge, (which was a juvenile produc- 
tion,) The Beat hand Dying Words of poor Maillie. 
and some of the songs, were composed before the 
year 1784. The circumstances of the poor sheep 
Avere pretty much as he has described them. He 
had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and 
two lambs from a neighbour, and she was tethered 
in a field adjoining the house at Lochlie. He and 
I were going out, with our teams, and our two 
younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-day; 
v'hen Hugh Wilson, a cwrious-Iooking, awkward 
boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with much 
anxiety in his face, with the information that the 
ewe had entangled herself in tlie tether, and was 
lying in the ditch. Robert was much tickled 
with Htioc^s appearance and postures on the occa- 
sion. Poor Muillie was set to rights, and when 
we returned from the plough in the evening, he 
repeated to me her Death and dying Words pretty 
much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the Epistle 
to Davie, Robert often composed without any 
regular plan. When any thing made a strong im- 
pression on his mind, so as to rouse it to poetie 
exertion, ke would give way to the impulse, and 
embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two 
or three stanzas to please him, he would then think 
of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 
ing stanzas ; hen«e the middle of a poem was 
often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 
1784, when, in the interval of harder labour, he and 
I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he 
repeated to me the princijjal part of this epistle. 
I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an 
author was started on this occasion. I was much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of 
c^inion it would bear being printed, and that it 
would he well reoeived by people of taste ; that I 



thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many 
of Allan Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to 
consist principally in the knack of the expression, 
but hei-e, there was a strain of interesting senti- 
ment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely 
seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural 
language of the poet ; that besides there was cer- 
tainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the con- 
solations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
I)leased with my criticism, and we talked of send- 
ing it to some magazine ; but as this plan affoi-ded 
no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the 
idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as we 
were going together with carts for coal to the 
family fire (and I could yet jroint out the particu- 
lar spot), that the author first repeated to me the 
Address to the Deil, The curious idea of such an 
address was suggested to him by running over in 
his mind, the many ludicrous accounts and repre- 
sentations we have from various quarters of this 
august personage. Death and Doctor Hoi'}iboo/c, 
though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, 
was produced early in the year 1785. The school- 
master of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty 
subsistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having acci- 
dentally fallen in with some medical books, and 
become most hobby-horsieally attached to the study 
of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- 
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill 
printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his 
own incapacity, he had advertised, th. t " Ad\-ice 
would be given in common disorders at the shop 
gratis." Robert was at a mason-meeting in Tar- 
bolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too 
ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he 
parted in the evening from this mixtui-e of pedan- 
try and physic, at the place where he describes 
his meeting w ith Death^ one of those floating ideas 
of apparition he mentions in his letter to Dr. 
Mooi'e, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for 
the rest of the way home. These circumstances 
he related when he repeated the verses to jae next 



APPENDIX. 



J95 



aflemoon, as I was holding the plough, and he 
was letting the water off the field beside me. 
The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced exactly 
on the occasion described by the author. He says 
in that poem, On fasten-e'en ive had a rockin, 
(p. 279.) I believe he has omitted the word rock- 
ing in the glossary. It is a term derived from 
those primitive times, when the country-women 
employed their sj)are hours in spinnii^g on the 
rock, or distaff. This simple impleiuent is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social inclina- 
tion of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the 
phrase of going a rocking, or ivith the rock. As 
the connexion the phrase had with the implement 
was forgotten when the rock gave place to the 
spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by 
botli sexes on social occasions, and men talk of 
going witli their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or iifteen young people with 
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning— 
•* When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and 
•we were informed who was the author. Upon 
this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapridk, and 
his second in reply to his answer. The verses to 
the Mouse and Mountain- Daisy were composed 
on the occasions mentioned, and while the author 
was holding the plough ; I could point out the 
particular spot where each was composed. Hold- 
ing the plough was a favourite situation with 
Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his 
best verses were produced while he was at that 
exercise. Several of the poems were produced 
for the purpose of bringing forward some favour- 
ite sentiment of the author. He used to remariv 
to me, that he could not well conceive a more 
mortifying picture of human life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, the 
eleg^' Man tvas made to mourn, was composed. 
Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he 
thought that there was something peculiarly ven- 
erable in the phrase, " Let us worship Gotl," 
used by a decent sober head of a family introduc- 
ing family worship. To this sentiment of the 
author the world is indebted for the Cotter s * 
Saturdaij Night. The hint of tlic i)lan, and title 
of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's 
Far7ner''s Ingle. When RolKrt lu'.d not some 
pleasure in view in which I was not thouglit fir to 
participate, we used frequently to walk together 
when the weather was favourable, on tlie Sunday 
afternoons, (those precious breathing-times to tl:e 
labouring part of the community,) and enjoyed 
such Suudays as would make one regret to see 
their numbor abridged. It was in one of tliese 
walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing tlie 
author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. I do 
not i-ecollfcct to liave read or heard ajiy ilung by 
which I was more highly electrified. Ihii fifth 
and sixth stanzas, and the eighteesith, thrilled with 
peculiar extasy through my soul. I mention this 
to you, that you may see what hit the taste of un- 
lettej-ed criticism. I should be glad to know, if 
the enlightened mind and refined Uastc of Mr. 
Roscoe, who has borne such honourable testi- 
mony to this poem, agrees with rae in the selec- 



tion. Fergusson, in his Hallorta Fair of Edin- 
burgh, I believe, likewise furnished a hint of the 
title and plan of the Hohj Fair. The farcical scene 
the poet there describes wa* often a favourite 
field of his observation, and the most of tlie inci-* 
dents he mentions liad actimlly passed before his 
eyes. It is scarcely necessary to mention, that 
the Lament was composed on that unfortunate 
passage in his matrijnonial history, which I have 
mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Uunlop, after the 
first distract'.on of his feelings had a little sub- 
sided. The Talc of Tua Dogs was composed after 
the resolution of publisliing was nearly taken. 
—Robert had a dog, which he called Lnatk, 
that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the 
night before m.y father's death. Robert said to 
me, that he should like to confer such immortality 
as he could bestow upon his old friend Luath, 
and that he had a great mind to introduce some- 
thing into the book under tlie title of Stanzas 
to the Memory of a quadruped Friend ; but this 
plan was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
Cwsar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luatb. The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at the 
house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish 
of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up the 
parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie has 
several daughters : one of them played ; the father 
and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the 
sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests, 
mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for 
our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 
stanzas, p. 265, were left in the room where he 
slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's 
letter was addressed, which my brother, in his let- 
ter to Dr. Moort", mentions as the reason of his 
going to Edinburgh. 

When my father feued his little property near 
Alloway-Kirk, the wall of the churchyard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
turing in it. My father, with two or three other 
neighbours, joined in an apjilieation to the town 
council of Ayr, who were superiors of the adjoin- 
ing land, for liberty to rebuild it, and raised by 
subscription a sum for inclosing this ancient 
cemetery with a wall; hence he came to con- 
sider it as his burial place, and we learned thai 
reverence for it, people generally have for tlie 
burial-place of their ancestors. Mf brother was 
living in Elisland, when Captain Grose, on his 
peregrinations through Scotland, staid some time 
at Carse-house, in the neighbourhood, with Cap- 
tain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel, a particular 
friend of my brother's. The antiquarian and 
the poet were " Unco pack and thick thegither." 
Roljert requested of Captain Grose, when he 
should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a 
drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the burial- 
place of his faiher, and where he himself had a 
sort ol" claim to lay down his boi-.es, when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him ; ami 
added, by way oi encouragement, that it was the 
scene of many a good story of witches and appari- 



296 



APPENDIX. 



tions, of which he knew the captain was very 
fond. The captain agreed to the request, provid- 
ed the poet would furnish a witch-story, to be 
printed along with it. Tarn o' Shanter was pro- 
duced on this occasion, and was first published in 
Grose'' s Antiquities of Scotland, 

This poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a mar, riding home 
very late fi'om Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing 
a light in Alloway-Kirk. his having the curiosity 
to look i;, his seeing a dance of witches, with 
the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the 
scanty covering of one of the witches, which 
made him so far forget himself as to cry — IVeel 
iaitpan short jorA:— with the melancholy catastro- 
phe of the piece ; is all a true story, that can be 
well attested by many respectable old people in 
that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstances 
respecting the other poems, that could be at all 
interi sting ; even some of those I have mention- 
ed, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but 
you will only make use of what appears to you 
of conscqu nee. 

Till' following poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The Brigs of 
Ayr; The Calf; (the poet had l>een with Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said jocu- 
larly to him when he was going to church, in 
allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, that he must be sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this ad- 
dress to the reverend gentleman on his text was 
accoi-dingly produced ;) The Ordination ; The 
Address to the Unco Gitid ; Tarn Samson^s Elegy ; 
A Winter Night ; Stanzas on the same occasion 
as the preceding Prayer ; Verses left at a Rever- 
end Friend's house; The first Psalm; Prayer 
vnder the pressure of violent Anguish; The first 
six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm ; Verses to Miss 
Logan, ivith Beattie\i Poems ; To a Haggis ; Ad- 
dress to Edinburgh ; John Barleycoi-n ; When 
Guilford guid ; Behind yon hills where Stinchar 
fioxis ; Gr'en groiv the Rashes; Again rejoicing 
Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; No Churchman 
am I. 

If you have never seen the first edition, it will 
perhaps not be amiss to transcribe the preface, 
lliat you may see the manner in which the jioet 
made his first awe-struck approach to the bar of 
public judgment. 

Preface to the first edition of Burns^ Poems, 
published at Kilmarnock. 

"The following trifles are not the production 
of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learn- 
ed art. and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
7iess of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, 
with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the 
author of this, these and other celebrated names, 
their countrymen, are, at least in their original 
language, A fountain shut up, and a book scaled. 
Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for 
oonuuencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments 
aixl manners he felt and saw in himself and his 
rustic compeers around him, in bis and their 



native language. Though a rhj-rafer from bis 
earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses 
of the softer passions, it Mas not till very lately, 
that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of 
friendship, weakened his vanity so far as to make 
him think any tiling of his worth showing ; and 
none of the following works were composed with 
a view to the press. To amuse himself with the 
little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and 
fatigues of a laborious life; to transcribe the 
various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, 
the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of 
counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always 
an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical 
mind — these were his motives for courting the 
muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own 
reward. 

" Now that he appears in the public character 
of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. 
So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at 
the thought of being branded as— an impertinent 
blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; 
and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few 
doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon 
himself as a poet of no small consequence fbr- 
sooth ! 

" It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, Avhose divine elegies do honour to our 
language, our nation, and our species, that ' Hu- 
mility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, 
but never raised one to fame !' If any criiic 
catches at the word genius, the author tells him 
once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself 
as possest of some poetic abilities, otherwise his 
jjublishiug in the maniier he has done, would be a 
manceuvre below the worst character, which, he 
hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But 
to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawn- 
ings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with 
equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in 
his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most 
distant pretensions. These two justly admired 
Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the 
following pieces ; but rather with a view to 
kindle at their flame than for servile imitation. 

" To his subscribers, the author returns bis 
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow 
over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude 
of the bard, conscious how much he owes t» bene- 
volence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he 
deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic 
bosom— to be distinguished. He begs his reader^ 
particularly the learned and tlie polite, who may 
lionour him with a perusal, that they will make 
every allowance for education and circumstances 
of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial 
criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and 
nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that 
case do by others— let him be condemned, without 
mercy, to contempt and oblivion." 



I am, dear sir, your most obedient humble ser- 
vant, GILBERT B^JRNS, 
Dr, Cttrrie, Liverpool. 



APPENDIX. 



297 



To tliis history of the poems which are contain- 
ed in this volume, it may be added, that our 
author appear, to have made little alteration in 
ihejn after their original composition, except in 
some few instances where considerahle additions 
have been introduced. After he had attracted the 
notice of the public by his fii-st edition, various 
criticisms v,ere offered him on the peculiarities 
of his style, as well as of his sentiments, and some 
of these, which remain among his manuscripts, 
are by persons of great taste and judgment. 
Some few of these criticisms he adopted, but the 
far greater part he rejected ; and, though some- 
thing has by this means been lost in point of 
delicacy and correctness, yet a deeper impression 
is left of the strength and originality of his genius. 
The firmness of our poet's character, arising from 
a jiist confidence in his own powers, nsay, in part, 
explain his tenaciousness of his peculiar expres- 
sions ; but it may be in some degree accounted 
for also, by the circumstances under which the 
poems were composed. Burns did not, like men 
of genius born under happier auspices, retire, in 
the moment of inspiration, to the silence and soli- 
tude of his study, and commit his verses to paper 
as they arraiiged themselves in his mind. For- 
tune did not afford him this indulgence. It was 
during the toils of daily labour that his fancy 
exerted itself; the muse, as he himself informs 
us, found him rt the plough. In this situation, it 
was necessary to fix his verses on his memory, and 
it was often mai>y days, nay weeks, after a poem 
was finished, before it was written down. During 
all this lime, by frequent repetition, the associa- 
tior between the thought and the expression was 
confirmed, and the impartiality of taste with 
which wiitte.n language is reviewed and retouch- 
ed after it has faded on the memory, could not in 
such instances be exerted. The original manu- 
scripts of many of his poems are preserved, and 
they differ in nothing material from th ; last 
printed edition. Some few variations may be 
noticed. 

1» In The Author -s earnest Cnj and Prayer, 
after the stanza, p. 235, beginning 

Erskine, a spunkic Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts, the 
following : 

Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

If bardies e'er are represented, 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand. 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh is evidently the present earl of 
Eglinton, then colonel Montgomery of Coilsfield, 
and representing in parliament the county of 
Ayr. Why this was left out in printing does not 
appear. The noble earl will not be sorry to see 
this notice of hini, familiar though it be, by a 
bard, whose genius he admired, and whose fate he 
lamented. 



2. In The Address to the Dei/, the sucoud 
stanza, in page 244, ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. 
When strappin' Adam's days were green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

In The Elegy on poor Maillic, p. 246, the stanza, 
begimiing 

She uas nae get o' moorland tipn, 

was, at first, as follows : 

She was nae get o' runted rams, 

W^i' woo' like goats, and legs like trams, 

She was the flower o' Fairke lambs, 

A famous breed, 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O' JIaillie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should lose 
the honour once intended them. 

3. But tlie chief variations are found in the 
poems introduced, for the first time, in the edi- 
tion in two volumes small octavo, published in 
1792. Of the poem PVrkten in Friars-Carse Her- 
mitage, there are several editions, and one of 
these* has nothing in common with the printed 
poem but the four first lines. The poem that is 
l>ublished, which was his second effort on the 
subject, received considerable alterations in print- 
ing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning 

Say man''s true genuine estimate, 

in manuscript tlie following are inserted : 

Say the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their state, 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wert thou cottager, or king ? 
Prince, or peasant ? no such thing. 

4. The Epistle to R. G. of F. Esq. that, is to R. 
Graham, of Finfra, Esq. also underwent consi- 
derable alterations, as may be collected from the 
volume of correspondence. This stile of poetry 
was new to our poet, and, though he was fitted 
to excel in it, it cost him more trouble than his 
Scottish poetr)'. On tlie contrary, Tani «*' Shan- 
ter seems to have issued perfect from the author's 
brain. The only considerable alteration made on 
reflection, is the omission of four lines, which had 
been inserted after the poem was finished, at the 
end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles 
found on the " haly table," and which appeared 



This is given in the Correspondence. 
Pp 



298 



APPENDIX. 



in the first edition of the poem, printed separately. 
They came afttr the second line, page 287, 

Which even t» name would be unlawfu', 

and are as follows : 

Three lawyers' tonnes turned inside out, 
Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay stinking vile in every neuk. 

These iuies, which, independent of other objec- 
tions, interrupt and destroy the emotions of terror 
which the prcCv.ding description had excited, were 
very properly left out of the printed collection, 
by the advice of Mr. Frazer Tytler ; to which 
Bums seems to have paid much deference*. 

* These four lines have been inadvertently re- 
placed iti the copy of Tarn o' Shanter, published 
in tht first volume of the "Poetry Original and 
Selecti d," ot Brash and Reid, of Glasgow ; and to 
this circui.>si;i;'.ce is owing their being noticed 
here. As our poet deliberately rejected them, it 
is hoped that uo future printer will insert them. 



5. The Address to the Shade of Thomson, pa^ 
288, began in the first manuscript copy in the 
following manner : 

While cold-eyed spring, a v-irgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet : 
While summer, with a matron's grace. 

Walks stately in the cooling shade, 
And oft delighted loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 
While autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys, with self-appro\'ing mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &c 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it may 
be questioned whether the poetry is much improv- 
ed ; the poet however has found means to intro- 
duce the shades of Dryburgh, the residence of 
the earl of Buchan, at whose request these verses 
were written. 

These observations might be extended, but 
what are alreadj- offered will satisfy curiosity, and 
there is nothing of any importance that could be 



IN the beginning of the year 1787, another 
\fork had commenced at Edinburgh, entitled, The 
Scots Musical Museum, conducted by Mr. James 
Johnson ; the object of wliich was to unite the 
songs and the music of Scotland in one general 
collection. The first volume of this work ap- 
peared in May; 1787, when our poet was in Edin- 
burgh ; and in |lt appeared one of his printed 
songs, to the tune of. Green groru the rashes, 
beginning " There's nought but care on every 
hand." He appears also to have furnished from 
his MSS. the last song in that volume, which was 
an early production, and not thought by himself 
worthy of a place in his works. The second 
volume appeared in the spring of 1788, and con- 
tained several original songs of Burns ; who also 
coutribHted liberally to the third, fourth, and fifth 



volumes, the last of which did not appear till after 
his death. In his communications to Mr. John- 
son, to which his name was not in general affixed, 
our bard was less careful than in his composi- 
tions for the gi-eater work of Mr. 1 hoii son. 
Several of them he never intended to ackrow- 
kdge, and others, printed in the Museuin, w.^re 
found somewhat alttred afterwards among- his 
manuscripts. In the selection which follows, 
attention has been paid to the wishes of the 
author as far as they are known. The printed 
songs have been compared with the MSS. and the 
last corrections have been uniformly inserted. 
The reader will probably think many of the 
songs which follow, among the finest productions 
of his muse. 



300 



roEMs. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, tvill ye go, ivill ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfcldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythtly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming sti-eam deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bomiie lassie, &c. 

The lioary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the bumie pours, 
And rising weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee. 
They ne'er shall draw a wish fiae rae, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bojinie lassie, &c,* 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 
LEAVE ME? 

Tune, " An Gille duhh ciar dhttbh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ! 

Cruel charmer, can you go ! 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 



* This is written in the same measure as the 
Birks of Abergeldie, an old Scottish song, froui 
■y*thvch nothing is borrowed but the chorus. 



Crystal streainlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, . 

Not a hope that dare attend. 
The wide world is all befoi-e us— 

But a world without a friend !* 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune, " Morag,'* 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young highland rover 

Far w anders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May heaven be his warden ; 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonuie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning. 

Shall soon w i' leaves be hinging. 
The birdies dowie moaning. 

Shall a' be blythely singing. 

And every flower be spi'inging. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-laug day. 

When by his mighty warden 
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordouf. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

Tune, " M'Grigor of Hero's Lament.'''' 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night tliat knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 

• Strathallan, it is presumed, was cue of the fol- 
lowers of the young chevalier, and is supposed to 
be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, 
after the battle of Cullodeii. This song wa« 
V ritten before the year 17S8. E. 

t The young Jiighland rover, is supposed to be 
the young chevalier, Prince Charles-Edward. E. 



POEMS. 



501 



Life, tlion soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing;, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee* !' 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune, " Druimion dubh.''* 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 

Which divides my love and me ; 
Wearying heaven in warm devotion. 

For his weal where'er he be, 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whisp'riiiR- spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom soitow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 

BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe and merry ivas she, 

Ely the was she but and ben : 
Blythe by the banks of Em, 

And blythe in Glcnturit glen. 

By OughteitjTe grows the aik, 

Oi: Yarrow banks, tha birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a borinier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May 
-> Her smile was like a simmer mom; 
She tripped by the banks of Ern^ 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As v,'as the blink o' Pheraie's e'e. 
Blythe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide^ 

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been:. 
But Phemie was the blythest lass 

That ever trode the dev.y green. 
Blythe, &c, 

* The occasion on which this poem was written 
is unknown to the editor. It is an early cojnposi- 
tion. E. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling strings or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morniiig*. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Tune, " N. Gow^s Lamentation for AbercairnyJ 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

Tlie lofty Ochels rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd doubly marks it beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

W^hen first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim controul 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



* This song was written during the winter of 
1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of Uie 
bard, is the heroine. 



302 



rOEMS. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 



Tune, " InvercaliTs Reel,' 



Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Tou would na been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troivth, I care na by. 



We part— but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely e^'es ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

'Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fiiir sun of all her sex. 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
But fient a hair care I. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
Because ye hae the name o' clink. 
That ye oan please me at a wink. 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'fer sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice j 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbie, I hae, c6t. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
1 Moukl na gie her in her sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



CLARINDA. 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 

Tune, " Seventh of November.''* 

The day returns, ray bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine; 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ! 
While joys above, ray raind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the liiU, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear^ 
As autuiuu to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander^ apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ; 
How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain ; 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ; 
What aspects old time, in his progress, has worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how 

pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give. 
For something beyond it poor man sure must livo 



Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreaiy pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 
The sun of all his joy ? 



O, AVERE I ON PARNASSUS' IfflJ, 

Tune, " My love is lost to ?»e." 

O were I on Parnassus' hill I 
Or had of Helit-on my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 
To sing how dear I lore theq. 



POEMS. 



SOS 



But Nith maun be my muse's well, 

My muse maun be thy bonnie sell ; 

On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sao clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en— 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond tlie the sun, 
Till my last, weary sand was run ; 
Till then— and then I love thee. 



I LO\nE MY JEAN. 

Tune, " Miss Admiral Gordoti't Strathspey.' 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a liill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower, that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee*, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 



* Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald 
Stewart, Esq. professor of moral philosophy in 
the university of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, for- 
merly tlie seat of Sir John \Vhitefoord, now of 
Alexander, Esq. E. 



Low in your wintry beds, ye flowf is. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Agaiii )e'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas! for me, iiae mair 

Shall birdie cliarm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle .' 

WnXIE BREW'D A PECK O' IMAUi' 

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 

Ye wad na And in Christendie. 

We are nafoii, ive^re nae thatfou. 

But just a drappie in our e'e; 
The cock may crarv, the day ?nay daw. 

And aye weHl taste the barley bree. 

Here ai'e we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be .' 
IVe are nafoii, &€. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae briglit to wyle us hame. 

But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
fVe are nafou, &c, 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward loun is he I 
Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king among us three ! 
IFe are nafou, &c.* 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
1 gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 

Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden I'inglets bright ; 

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, 
She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 

And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 
Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue. 



* Willie, who " brew'd a peck o' maut," was 
Mr. William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, were our 
poet and his friend Allan Masterton. TJiis meet- 
ing took place at Laggan, a farm purchased by 
Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the recommendation 
of our bard. These three honest fellows — all men 
of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf. 
(1799.) P,. 



304 



POEMS. 



But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow: 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bounie blue*. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune—" Robie Dolina Gorach.'''' 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

\Vh4?re royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter ftov s the Nith. to me, 

Where Cummins anoe had high command ; 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That windiii^ stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's udverse haiid 

For ev€r, ever keep me here ! 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreaiUng hawthorns gayly bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When wc wsre first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your l)onuie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jot. 

* The heroine of tliis song was Miss J****, of 
Lochmaban. This lady, now Mrs. R*****, after 
residing some time in Liverpool, is stttled with 
her husband in New York, North America. E. 

■f In the first volume of a collection entitled, 
Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash 
and Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as fol- 
lows : 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come leu' ; 

To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen. 



Ye'U blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should 

you do so ? 
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, 

my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first 
began 

To try her canny hand, John, her master-work 
was man ; 

And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to 
toe. 

She prov'd to be nae journey-work, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first 
conceit, 

And ye need nae think it strange, John, tho' I ca' 
ye trim and neat ; 

Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never 
think ye so, 

But I think ye're aye the same to me, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our 

bairns' bairns. 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in 

your arms. 
And sae are ye in mine, John— I'm sure ye'U ne'er 

say no, 
Tho' the diiys are gane that we have seen, John 

Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does 
it gie, 

To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween 
you and me, 

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go. 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 

John Anderson, inyjo, John, tvhen we ivere first 

acquaint, 
Tour locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow 

was brent ; 
But no7v your head's turn'd bald, John, your locks 

are like the snoiv. 
Yet blessings on your frosty poxv, John Andersen, 

my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, Im/jroved, 
By ROBERT BURNS. 



John Anderson, mj- jo, John, frae year to year 

we've jjast. 
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring 
us to our last: 
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you But let na' that affright us, John, our hearts were 

mean, ne'er our foe, 

To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late While in innocent delight we lived, John Ander- 
at e'en j «on, my jo. 



POEMS. 



305 



.I'm thinking, wi* sic a braw fellow. 
In poortith I miglit inak a fen ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I mauua marry Tarn Glen ! 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

" Glide day to you brute," he conies ben: 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Taiu Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake liim, 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
My heart to ray mou gied a steii ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I M'as waukin, 
My droukit surli-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 



Johii Atiderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill the- 
gither. 

And monij a canty day, John, we've had wV ane 
anither ; 

Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in 
hand we'' II go, 

And we'll sleep thegiiher at the foot, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 

The stanza with which this song, inserted by 
Messrs. Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of 
the old song under this title ; and though perfect- 
ly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has 
wo accordance with the strain of delicate and ten- 
der sentiuient of this improved song. In regard to 
the five other additional stanzas, though they are 
in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unques- 
tionably our bard's, yet every reader of discern- 
ment will see they are by an inferior hand ; and 
the real author of them, ought neither to have 
given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the 
world, as the production of linrns. If there were 
no other mark of their spurious origin, tlu latter 
half of the third line in the seventh stanza, our 
hearts were ne^er our foe, would be proof suffi- 
cient. Many are the instances in which our bard 
has adopted defective rhymes, but a single in- 
stance cannot be produced, in which, to pn serve 
the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought, iti 
false grammar. These additional stanzas aiv not, 
however, without mi rit, and thej^ may serve to 
prolong the pleasure which every person of taste 
must frcl, from listening to a most iiappy union of 
beautiful music, with moral seniinieuts that are 
singularly interesting. E. 



Come cotmsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gi. you my honnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. 

MY TOCHKR'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 

And mtikle thinks my luve o' ray kin; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He can na hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny, 

My tochei-'s the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am eunnin. 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye'r, like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LAWIN. 

Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brand} 's stars and moon, 
And blue red wine's the rysin sun. 

Theii guidwife count the laivin, the lawin, the 

lawin. 
Then guid^vife count the laivin, and bring a 

coggie mair. 

There's wealth and case for gentlemen. 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen ; 
But liere we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that 's drunk 's a lord. 

Then guidwife coujit, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wantiui trout. 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, <iyc. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
WI' A\ AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a younj 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an fiuld man • 
Bad luck on the pennie that t; nipted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, drc. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary daj laiig; 

He's doyl't and he's dozin, his blade it is liL»zen, 
O, drearv's the night wi' a crazy auld inau ! 



306 



POEMS. 



He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can i)lease him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish, and jealous of a' the 3'oung; fellows, 
Oj dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, aJid wrack him, until I heart-break 
him. 
And then his aulcf brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine ; 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face of thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine I 
Bonnie wee, &c. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY TAM ! 

Tune—" The Moudiervort," 

An 0,for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty. Tarn ! 
ril learn my kin a rattlin sang. 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn, 

They snool me sair, and baud me do\vn, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun'. 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An 0,for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. 

Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
At kith or kin I need na spier. 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An 0,for ane, &c. 



I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest ; 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
Where blythe I turn my si>innin wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this liumble state. 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flairing, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel 1 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in tlie milking shiel, 

Says I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony ane. 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie Jien, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 



They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam J 
An 0,for ane, &c. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock ar.d reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en I 



For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single Hie ; 
He loes sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blytbe's the blink o' Kobie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he loes me dear : 
Ite blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 



POEMS. 



307 



But some will spend, and some will spare, 
An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 

Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

Aud gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy •• 
We may be poor— Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve bring peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



FAIR EUZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Hew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart J 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
Tor inty hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pi-ide o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O luve -will venture in, where it daur na weel be 

seen, 
O luve will venture in where wisdom anoe has 

been; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood 

sae green. 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May, 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phebus peeps in 

view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

mou ; 



The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging 
blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosdj^I'U place the lily there ; 
The daisy 's for simpljp^ and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 

tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear :May. 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her e'en 

sae clear; 
The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to 

wear. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll i)lace it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 

ne'er remuve. 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ] 
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose. 

Fa' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose. 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WTLLIE HAD. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; 
Willie was a wabster gude, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgle was her mither ; 
Sic a rvife as JVilUe had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour ; 



308 



POEMS. 



Five rusty teeth forbye a stump, 

A clappti- ini.gue wad (leave a miller; 

A wliiskin beard about her mou, 

Her nost- and chin they threaten ither ; 

Sic a 7vzfe, &c, 

tfl' 
She's bow-hough 'd, she's T!|^-shinn'd, 

A(- liinpiii kg a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisttd right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hymp upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a ^vife, &c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wl' htr loof her face a washin; 
But Willie's wife is nat sae trig, 

Shi dights her grunzie wi' a hushion: 
Her wftlJL nieves like raiddeii-erc-els, 
Her fact wad fjie the Logan-water ; 
Sic a rvije as IVillie had, 
I wad na gie a button fur her. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember. 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But tlie dire feeling. OfareiveUfor ever. 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was tht partiiig thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be iny dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 
And that's the love I bear thee .' 

I swear and vow, that Oiily thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

OjiJy thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 

Or if thou wilt na be ray ain, 
Say na thou'k refuse me : 

If it winna, canaa be. 
Thou, for thine, may choose me j 

Li t m-:, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickl) die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braesj 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the 
glen, 

Te wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. 
Far marit'd with the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides j 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathei-ing sweet flowerets she stems thy clear 
wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 
And surly winter grimly flies ; 

Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 
And boxuiie blue are the sunny skies ; 



POEMS. 



»09 



i'resh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morn- 

The e\ 'ning- gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning-, 
And 1 rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

'Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old time and natun- their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine^ 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land. 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
ni love my gallant weaver*. 



LOUIS ^TIAT RECK I BY THEE. 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean : 
Dyvor, beggar loans to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me : 
Kings and nations, swith awa ! 

Reif randies I disown ye ! 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 



Ye powers that smile on virtuous love. 

O. sweetly siiiile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep hiin free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not, 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blinds her e'e ; 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves ai*e growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e I 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man 1 trow thou be ; 
For raony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH 
OF HER SON. 

Tune—" F'inlaijsto7i House^^ 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops. 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow. 

Now, fond, I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest! 



My heart is sair I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 



* In some editions sailor is substituted for 
toeaver. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet. 
As the mirk night o' December j 

For sparkling was the rosy wine. 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will aye remember. 
And dear, &c. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
CJtn push about tl«e jormn j. 



510 



FOEMS. 



And hcrt'^s to them that wish us wecl, 
May a' that's gude watch o'er tliem ; 

And here's to them, we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here^s to. &c. 



O WAT YE WHA'S m YON TOWN. 

O wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon, 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

That e'enin sun is shining oiu 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 



O my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June ; 

my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

1 will love thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only lure ! 

And fare thee weel, a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



The sun blinks blythe on yon tewn, 
And on you bonnie braes of Ayr; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
G' paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad. tent and shelter there. 

9 sweet is she in yon town. 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 

A fairer than's in yon town. 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I careless quit aught else below. 
But spare me, spare my Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she— as fairest is her form .' 
She has the truest, kindest heart*. 



* The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly 
Miss L. J.) died lately at Lisbon. Tliis most ac- 
eomplished and most lovely woman, was worthy 
of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will 
convey some impression of her attractions to 
other generations. The song is written in the 
character of her husband, as the reader will have 
observed by our bard's letter to Mr. Syme inclos- 
ing this song, p. 220. (1799.) E. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. 

Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her care ; 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill. 

And the distant-echoing glens reply ; 

The stream adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

•Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's ; 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

tBy heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And. by the moon-beam, shook, to see, 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy— Liberty ! 



* Variation. To join yon river on the Strath, 
t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. 
Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia 
rear'd ; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist ap- 
pcar'd. 



POEMS. 



an 



And fSrae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the shunb'ring dead to hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wl' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes*. 

• This poem, an imperfect copy of which was 
printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given fi*om 
the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The sce- 
nery so finely described is taken from nature. 
The poet is supposed to be musing by night on 
the banks of the river Cluden, or Cloudon, and by 



the ruins of Linelnden-Abbey, founded in the 
twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of 
whose present situation the reader may find some 
account in Pennant's tour in Scotland, or Grose's 
antiquities of that division of the island. Such a 
time and such a place are well fitted for holding 
converse with aerial beings. Though this poem 
has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that 
no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, 
would forgive its being omitted. Our poet's pru- 
dence suppressed the song of Libertic, perhaps 
fortunately for his reputation. It may be ques- 
tioned whether even in the resources of his genius, 
a strain of poetry could have been found worthy 
of the grandeur and solemnity of this prepant- 
tion. E. 



The following poems, found among: the MSS. of Mr. Burns, are now for the first time presented to 

the public. 



^"Py "j/* « Poetical Address to Mr. William Ttjt/er, 
with the present of the bard's picture. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuai-t, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 

But now 'tis despised and neglected : 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh. 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for k— G— I most heartily join. 
The q— , and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune—" Caledonian Hunt^s Delight.'''' 

There was once a day, but old Time then was 
young. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pl^dg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,— 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
shall rue!" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 



But, loyalty, .truce ! we're on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how the fashions may alter, 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 

Siacere as a saint's dying prayer. 



Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand* : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their ciy. 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 



Now life's chilly evening dim shades on j-our eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a comer 
on me, and I have not got again into her good 
graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere 
in my grateful remembrance of the many civili- 
ties you have honoured me with since I came to 
Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the 
honour to be 

Revered sir. 
Your obliged and very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the nortli. 

The scourge of the seas and the dread of the 
shoret ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gorej : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could re- 
pel; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd. 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie teU$. 



* The Romans. f The Saxons. 

X The Danes. 

§ Two famous battles, in M'hich th<? Danes cv 
Norwegians were defeated. 
Rr 



314 



POEMS. 



The Camelon-savage dlstui'b'd hei* repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and liis 
life* : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 
flood; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



Or if he was grown oughtlins dousey. 
And no a perfect kintra cooser : 
A' tliis and mair I never lieard of ; 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray, a' gude things may attend you 

Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790, 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll chuse. 

The upright is chance, and old time is the 
base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 
alwayst. 



The following Poem was written to a gentleman, 
who had sent him, a news-paper^ and offer- 
ed to continue it free of expense. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through. 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; 

That vile doup-skelper, empei-or Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the twalt : 

If Denmai-k, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin ; 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin. 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Wai-ren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare a— s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, 

Was threshin still in liizzies' tails, 

* The Picts. 

t This singular figure of poetry, taken fiom 
the mathematics, refers to the famous proposition 
of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right- 
angled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is 
always equal to the squares of the two other 
4dts. E. 



POEM 



ON PASTORAL POETRY, 

Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserv'd ! 

In chase o' thee, what crouds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd. 

Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
While, loud, the trump's heroic clang 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang- 

But vvi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, sui-vives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters ; • 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters^ 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan • 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ? 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines*, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 



* To the nfne**-exactly. E^. 



POEMS. 



315 



In gowany glens ihy burnic strays, 
WJiere boiinie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or ti-ots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's s»l ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witching love. 
That charm, that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

Bet-ween the duke of Argtjle and the earl of Mar. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun. 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin-red i-an raony a sheugh, 
M)' heart for fear gae sough for sough, > 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in taitan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The i-ed-coat lads wi' black cockades 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd. 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while bi'oad swords 

clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

'Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyi'in tartan trews, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" O how deil, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dunblane in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear, araaist did swarf, man." 



Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day thi ir neebers' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, thai they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain. 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets knell, 

Wi' djing yell, the tones fell, 
And wliigs to hell did flee, man*. 



SKETCH. 

NEW YEAR'S DAT. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

This day. Time Avinds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonth's length again :— 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
M'ith ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 
In vain assail him with their prayer. 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Ncr makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the majoi''s with the hounds. 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-dayt. 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
—That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 
And join with me a moralizing. 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion "i 
" The passing moment's all we rest on!" 
Rest on— for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may— a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes— all such reasonings ai-e amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies. 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 



} 



My sister Kate cam up the gate 
Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 

She swoor she saw some rebels run 
Frae Perth tmto Dundee, man : 



* This was written about tlie time our bard 
made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. E, 

t This young lady was dra^ving a picture of 
Coihi from the Vision, p. 249. 



316 



POEMS. 



That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night— 

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends ; 

Let us th' important noxv employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's soiTows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse) 

Others now claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

On the late Mr. William Smellie, author of the 

philosophy of Natural History, and member 

of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies 

of Edinburgh, 

To Crochallan came* 
The old cock'd hat, the grey suitout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild staling, thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, i-ude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION 

For 

AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 

At Kerrouchtry, the seat of Mr. Heron. 

Written in Summer, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 

Prepar'd pow'r's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



} 



SONNET, 
ON THE DEATH OF 

ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. 

Of Glen Riddel, April, 1794. 

Nc more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 

* Mr. Smellie, and our poet, were both mem- 
bers of a club in Edinburgh, under the name of 
^lochaUan F(?»«ibk8. E. 



Thou young-eyed spring, gay in ihy verdant 
stole, 
More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest 
roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: 
How can I to the tuneful sti'ain attend ? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies*. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. 
Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY, 

ON A LADT FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glistened ; 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen- 
ed. 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest aflTection removed ; 

How doubly severe, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unloved. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a teai- : 
But come, all ye ofl^spring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash 
deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

* Robert Riddel, esq. of Friars' Carse, a very 
worthy character, and one to whom our bard 
thought himself under many obligations. It is a 
curious circumstance, that the two concluding 
lines express a sentiment exactly similar to one of 
the most beautiful passages in the " Pastor Fido," 
from the 7th to the 10th line of the Monologue, 
at the opening of the 3d act; yet Burns had no 
acquaintance with Guarini's work. Feeling dic- 
tates to genius in all ages, and all countries, and 
her language must be often the same. E. 



POEMS. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 

What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of gopdness denied her esteem. 



Ansrver to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the 
7vindoTvs, carriages, drc. to each farmer, order- 
ing him to send a signed list of his horses, ser- 
vants, wheel-carriages, &c., and whether he was 
a married man or a bachelor, and ivhat chil- 
dren they luid. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send 30U here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 



Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew befoi'e a pettle. 
My hand-afore*, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand-a-hinf, a gude brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killiet ; 
And your auld borough mony a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fu7--a-hin§, a guid, gray beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud^ Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at lea^t. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a jjoker o' the spindle. 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher tother. 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them as I ought discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till faith wee Davie's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you off" effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 



} 



} 



* The fore horse on the left hand, in the 
plough. 

t The hindmost on the left hand, in the 
plough. 

X Kilmarnock. 

i> The smne on the right hand, in the plough. 



I've nane in female servant station, 
Loi-d keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair tlian weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair tlian I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bouglit Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enougli of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already. 
And if ye tax her or her mither. 
By the L— d ye'se get them a' thegithei- ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of licence out I'm taking. 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 

E'er I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy slumps, the Lord be thanked '. 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 



This list wi' my am hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns 
Stibscripsi huic 

ROBERT BURNS. 



SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair*, 
Shall ever be my muse's care; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0, 
I set me down wV right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 

were yon hills and valleys mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my highland lassie, O, 

JVithin the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 
JVithin the glen, &c, 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom bui-ns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow s' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, &c. 

* Gentle is used here in opposition to simple, in 
the Scottish and old English sense of the word. 
Nae gentle dames— no high-blooded dames. £. 



318 



POEMS. 



She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By saered truth and honour's band ! 
' I'ill the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm tliine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, .' 
Farewell the plain sac rushy, ! 
To. other lands I now must go 
To sing my highland lassie, 0* ! 



That fate may in hev fairest page, 
With every kindlic t, best presage 
Of future bliss, enroll thy name : 
With native worth, and spotU ss fame,, 
And wakeful caution, still awarjE 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thj' guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. 



IMPROMPTU. 

On Mrs. '* birth day, 4th Nov. 1793. 

Old winter with his frosty beard; 
Thiis once to Jove his prayer preferred: 
What have I done of all the year. 
To b; i.r this hated doom severe ? 
M> cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Niglu's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

1 hat brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me ; 

'Tii done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were 1 in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and hare, 
The desart were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thv» to reign, wi' thee to reign j 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



SONNET, 

Written on the 25th January, 1793, the birth-dqy 
of the author. 

On hearing a thrush sing in a morning walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough. 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 
See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, author of this opening day! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ] 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite liigh heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll share. 



EXTKMPORE. 

TO MR. S**E, 

On refusing to dine rvith him, after having been 

promised the first of company, and the first 

of cookery, nth December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation : 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSr L , DUMFRIES, 

With books which the bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And -with them take the poet's prayer : 



* This is an early production, aivd seems to 
have been written on Highland Mary. E. 



TO MR. S**E, 
With apresentofa dozen of porter, 

O had the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit : 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S**e were fit. 

Jertisakm Tavern, Dumfries. 



POEMS. 



319 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEEUS. 

Tune, " Push about the Jorum.''' 
April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, sir. 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon*, 

And Criffel sink in Solwayt, 
E'er we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rail, &c. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
'Till slap come in an unco loon, 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain tnie, 

Aniang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' blude the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damned tegether. 
Who will not sing " God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while we sing " God save the king," 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 



POEM, 

Addressed to Mr. Mitchell, collector of excise, 
Dumfries, 1796. 

Friend of the poet tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 

It would be kind ; 

* A high hill at the source of the Nith. 
t A well-known mountain at the mouth of the 
same river. 



And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 
I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
I'o see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er llic lounin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts ci-owning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket. 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by gude luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. 

The fumes of wine infuriate send, 
fNot moony madness more astray,) 

Who but deplores that hapless fi-iend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part : 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ' 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEIVI ON LIFE, 

Addressed to colonel De Pctjster, Dumfries, 179?j. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit. 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve?) 

Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan.^ 
Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan. 



320 



POEMS. 



Our sinfu' saul to get a claute on, 
Wi' felon ire ; 

Syne, whip .' his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on. 
He's off like fire. 

Ah ! Nick, ah Nick, it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damned waft. 

Poor man the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'eK gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangj, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hiangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen] amen I 



ADDRESS 



THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My curse upon your venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
lUieumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan f 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw tlie wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gvee. 



Where'er that place by priests ca'd hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'i-y yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' .' 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeal, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ;— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's tooth-ache \ 



SONG. 

Tune—" Morag." 

O wha is she that lo'es me. 

And has my heai-t a keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me. 
As dews o' summer weeping, 
In tears the rose buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

that''s the lassie o' my heart, 
My lassie ever dearer, 

thafs the queen o' -woman kind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie. 

Ere while thy breast sae warming,' 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 

And thy attentions plighted, 
That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted ; 

And thou art all delighted. 
thafs, &c. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one 

But her thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken hearted.— 

that''s the lassie o' my heart, 
My lassie ever dearer, 

that's the queen o' woman kind, 
And ne''er a ane to peer her. 



SONG. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 



POEMS. 



321 



Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plairt. 

When the shades of«evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e^ 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 

He >vill think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
The frost of hermitage might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitpng teai-, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disai'ms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



But please tfansmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, dy ago^ 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, cr ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession ; 

Igo, & ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 
OF FINTRY, 

On receiving a favour. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearei-, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



Written in a Wrapper enclosing a letter to capt. 
Grose, to be left ivith Mr. Cardonnel, antiqua- 
rian. 

Tune—" Sir John Malcolm.''^ 

Ken ye ought o' captain Grose ? 

Igo, & ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he south, or is he north ? 

Igo, & ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, & ago. 
And eaten like a weathei'-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, iy ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by the M'ame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, (zir ago. 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest. 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thou who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, heavenly guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But, whether granted or denied. 

Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen ! 



To my dear and much honoured friend, 
Mrs. DUNLOP, of DUNLOP. 

ON SENSIBIUTY. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend^ canst truly tell ; 
Ss 



POEMS. 



But distress with horrors armingf, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIBE. 



Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A Verse composed and repeated by Bums, to the 
master of the house, on taking leave at a place 
in the Highlands^ where he had been hospitably 
entertained. 



When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming, 
Fare thee weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers adieu, whare love, decoying, 
Fii-st enthrall'd this heart o' mine ; 

There the safest sweets enjoying,— 
Sweets that mem'ry ne'er shall tine ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye hae render'd moments dear ; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever. 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 

Could I think I did deserve it. 
How much happier would I be ? 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew ; 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



GLOSSARY 



{\\t.''?iK[Vi 



GLOSSARY 



THE ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong «o, is com- 
monly spelled on. The French u, a soujmI which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked 
00, or tii. The a, in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a dipluliongv or followed by au 
e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in u-all. The Scottish 
diphthong ae, always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish dijih- 
thong eij, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A. 

A\ all 

Aback, away, aloof 
Abeigh, at a shy distance 
Aboon, above, up 
Abread, abroad, in sight 
Abreed, in breadth 
Ae, one 

Aff, off; Aff loof, un- 
premeditated 
Afore, before 
Aft, oft 
Aften, often 
Agley, off the right line, 

wrong 
Aiblins, perhaps 
Ain, own 

Airl-penny, earnest-mo- 
ney 
Aim, iron 
Aith, an oath 
Aits, oats 

Aiver, an old horse 
Aizle, a hot cinder 
Alake, alas ! 
Alane, alone 
Aktvart, aukward 
Amaist, almost 
Among, among 
An'', and, if 
Alice, once 
Ane, one 

Anent, over against 
Anither, another 
Ase, ashes 

Asklent, asquint, aslant 
Asteer, abroad, stirring 
Athort, athwart 
Aught, possession ; as in 
a' my aught, in all my 
possession 
Aul long syne, olden 
time, days of other 
years 
Juld, old 

Auldfarran, or auld far- 
rant, sagacious, cun- 
ning, prudent 
Ava, at all 



Axva, away 
Arvfu\ awful 
Awn, the beard of bar- 
ley, oats, &;c. 
Awiiie, beai'ded 
Ayont, beyond 

B. 

Ba\ ball 

Backets, ash-boards 

Backlins comin\ com- 
ing back, returning 

Bad, did bid 

Baide, endured, did stay 

Baggie, the belly 

Bainie, having lai'ge 
bones, stout 

Bairn, a child 

Bairntime, a family of 
children, a brood 

Baith, both 

Ban, to swear 

Bane, bone 

Bang, to beat, to strive 

Bardie, diminutive of 
bard 

Bareft, barefooted 

Barmie, of, or like bai'm 

Batch, a crew, a gang 

Batts,hoUs 

Baudrons, a cat 

Batild, bold 

Barvk, bank 

Baws^nt, having a white 
stripe down the face 

Be, to let be, to give o- 
ver, to cease 

Bear, barley, , 

Beastie, diiain. ,<jf beast 

Beet, to add fuel, to iire 

BeW, bald . ., 

Bclyve, bye and by , , 

Ben, into the speuce or 
parlour 

Benlomond, a noted 
mountain in Dum- 
bartonshire . > 

Bethankit, gr<i<;p< -after 
meat 



Beuk, a book 
Bicker, a kind of wood- 
en dish, a short race 
Bie, or bield, shelter 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful 
Big, to build 
Biggin, building, a house 
Biggif, built 
Bill, a bull 
Billie, a brother, a young 

fellow 
Bing, a heap of grain, 

potatoes, &c. 
Birk, birch 

Birken-sharv, bircfien- 
wood-sharv, a small 
wood 
Birkie, a clever fellow 
Birring, the noise of 
partridges, Sec, when 
they spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz^ 
Blastie, a shrivelled 
dwarf, a term of con- 
tempt 
Blastit, blasted 
Blate, bashful, sheepish 
Blather, a bladder 
Blaud, a flat piece of 

any thing 5 to slap 
Blaw, to blow, to boast 
Bleert and blin, bleered 

and blind 
Bleerit, bleared, sore 

with rheum 
Bleezing, blazing 
Blelhan, idle talking 

fellow I 
Blether^ to italk idly.; 
,, nonsense, • 
■B.leth''rin, talking idly . 
Blink, a little while, a 
, . smiling look ; to look 
kindly, to shine by 
, fits 

J^linker,.a term of con- 
tempt ;. 
Blinkt/u, floyji'king 
Blue-gown, one of those 



beggars who get att- 

nually, on the king's 

birth-day, a blue cloak 

or gown, with a badg^ 

Bluid, blood 

Bluntie, snivelling ' 

Blype, a shred, a large 

piece 
Bock, to vomit, to gusU 

intermittently 
Bocked, gushed, vomited 
Bodle. a small gold Coin 
Bogles, spirits, hobgob- 
lins 1 
Bonnie, br bonny, hand- 
some, beautiful 
Bonnock, a kind of thick 
cake of bread, a small 
jannack or loaf made 
of oatmeal ■ n:' h;'.'i 
Boord, a board ' :i ■'<■ 
Bore, a hole in a wall 
Boortree, the shrub el- 
der ; planted much Of 
old in hedges of barn- 
yards, &c. '" 
Boost, behoved, muit 

needs 
Botch, an angry tumour 
Bouk, vomiting, gushing; 
out ' 

Bousing, drinking 
Bow-kail, cabbage ■*> 
Bawt, bended, crooked 
Brachens, fern 
Brae, a declivity, a pi-e- 
cipice, the slope of a 
hUlj . 
jB/Y/if/; broad 
Braik, a kind of han-ow 
Brainge, to run rashly 

forward 
Braign^t, rei-led forward 
Brak, broke, made in- 
solvent ; 
Branks, a, kind of wood- 
en curb for horses 
Brash, a sudden illness 
Brats, coai-se clothes, 
rags, &;c. 



3^6 



GLOSSARY. 



Brattle, a short race, 
Iiurry, fury 

Bratv, fine, handsome 

Braivlyt, or brawlie, ve- 
ry well, finely, hear- 
tily 

Braxie, a morbid sheep 

Breastie, dimin. of breast 

Breastie, did spring up 
or forward 

Breckan, fern 

Breef, an invulnerable 
or irresistible spell 

Breeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Brervin, brewing 

Brie, juice, liquid 

Brig, a bridge 

Brunstane, brimstone 

Brisket, the breast, the 
bosom 

Brither, a brother 

Brock, a badger 

Brogue, a hum, a trick 

Broo, broth, liquid, wa- 
ter 

Broose, broth, a race 
at country weddings, 
who shall first reach 
the bridegroom's 

house on returning 
from church 

Brugh, a burgh 

Bruilzie, a broil, a com- 
bustion 

Brunt, did burn, burnt 

Brust, to burst, burst 

Buchan-bullers, the boil- 
ing of the sea among 
tlie rocks on the coast 
of Buchan 

Buckskin, an inhabitant 
of Virginia 

Bught, a pen 

Bughten-time, the time 
of collecting the sheep 
in the pens to be 
milked 

Buirdly, stout made, 
broad built 

Bum-clock, a humming 
beetle that flies in the 
summer evenings 

Bummin, humming as 
bees 

Bummle, to blunder 

Btimmler, a blunderer 

Bunker, a window seat 

Bardies, dimin. of birds 

Bure, did bear 

Burn, or burnie, a wa- 
ter, a rivulet 

Burneivin, i. e. burn the 
rvind, a blacksmith 

Burnie, dimin. of burn 

Buskie, bushy 

Miiskit, dressed 



Busks, dresses 

Busle, a bustle, to bustle 

Buss, shelter 

But, bot, with 

But an^ ben, the country 
kitchen and parlour 

By himself, lunatic, dis- 
tracted 

Byke, a bee-hive 

Byre, a cow-stable, a 
shippen 

C. 

Co', to call, to name, to 
drive 

CaH, or ca'd, called, 
driven, calved 

Cadger, a carrier 

Cadie, or caddie, a per- 
son, a young fellow 

Caff, chaff 

Caird, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of 
stones 

Calf-roar d, a small enclo- 
sure for calves 

Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh, sound, re- 
freshing 

Cannie, gentle,mild, dex- 
terous 

Cannilie, dexterously, 
gently 

Cantie, or canty, cheer- 
ful, merry 

Cantraip, a charm, a 
sptli 

Cap-stane, cope-stone, 
key-stone 

Careerin, cheerfully 

Carl, an old man 

Carlin, a stout old wo- 
man 

Cartes, cards 

Caudron, a caldron 

Cauk and keel, chalk 
and red clay 

Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drink- 
ing vessel 

Cesses, taxes 

Chanter, a part of a bag- 
pipe 

Chap, a person, a fellow, 
a blow 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow 

Cheekit, cheeked 

Cheep, a chirp, to chirp 

Chiel, or cheel, a young 
fellow 

Chimla, or chimlie, a fire- 
grate, fire-place 

Chimla-lug, tlie fire-side 

Chittering, shivering, 
trembling 

Chockin, choaking 



Chow, to chew ; cheek 
for choxv, side by side 

Chuffie, fat-faced 

Clachan, a small village 
about a church, a 
hamlet 

Claise, or claes, clothes 

Claith, cloth 

Claithing, clothing 

Claivers, nonsense, not 
speaking sense 

Clap, clapper of a mill 

Clarkit,viYo\.Q 

Clash, an idle tale, the 
story of the day 

Clatter, to tell little idle 
stories ; an idle story 

Claught, snatched at, 
laid hold of 

Claut, to clean, to scrape 

Clauted, scraped 

Clovers^ idle stoi'ies 

Clarv, to scratch 

Cleed, to clothe 

Cleeds, clothes 

Cleekit, having caught 

Clinkin, jerking, clink- 
ing 

Clinkumbell, who ring^s 
the church bell 

Clips, sheers 

Clishniaclaver, idle con- 
versation 

Clock, to hatch; a beetle 

Clockin, hatching 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, 
sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for 
the Devil 

Clour, a bump or swell- 
ing after a blow 

Cluds, clouds 

Coaxin, wheedling 

Coble, a fishing-boat 

Cockernoiiy, a lock of 
hair tied up on a girl's 
head, a cap 

Coft, bought 

Cog, a wooden dish 

Coggie, dimin. of cog 

Coila, from Kyle, a dis- 
trict of Ayrshire, so 
called, saith tradition, 
from Coil, or Coilus, 
a Pictish monarch 

Collie, a general, and 
sometimes a particu- 
lar name for country 
curs 

Collieshangie, quarrel- 
ling 

Commaun, command 

Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead, a nin- 
ny 

Cookit, appeared, and 
disappeared by fits 



Coosi, did cast 

Coot, the ancle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen 
dish ',-also those fowls 
xvhose legs are clad 
tvith feathers are said 
to be cootie 

Corbies, a species of the 
crow 

Core, corps, party, clan 

Corn't, fed with oats 

Cotter, the inhabitant of 
a cot-house or cottage 

Couthy, kind, loving 

CoTve, to terrify, to keep 
under, to lop ; a 
fright, a branch of 
furze, broom, &c. 

CoTvp, ta barter, to tum- 
ble over ; a gang 

CoTvpit, tumbled 

Coiorin, cowering 

Corwte, a colt 

Cozie, snug 

Cozily, snugly 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 

Crack, conversation, to 
converse 

Crackin, conversing 

Craft, or croft, a field 
near a house, in old 
husbandry 

Craiks, cries or calls in- 
cessantly, a bird 

Crambo-clink, or cram- 
bo-jingle, rhymes, dog- 
grel verses 

Crank, the noise of an 
ungreased wheel 

Crankous, fretful, cap- 
tioiis 

Cranreuch, the hoar- 
frost 

Crap, a crop ; to crop 

Craw, a crow of a cock, 
a rook 

Creel, a basket ; to have 
one''s wits in a creel, 
to be crazed, to be 
fascinated 

Creeshie, greasy 

Crood, or croud, to eoo 
as a dove 

Croon, a hollow and con- 
tinued moan ; to make 
a noise like the con- 
tinued roar of a bull ; 
to hum a tune 
Crooning, humming 
Crouchie, crook-backed 
Crouse, cheerful, coura- 
geous 
Crously, cheerfully, cou- 
rageously 

Croivdie, a composition 
of oat-meal and boil- 
ed water, sometimes 



GLOSSARY. 



327 



from the broth of 
beef, mutton, &c. 

Crowdictimi; breakfast- 
time 

Croivlin, crawling 

Crummock, a cow with 
crooked horns 

Crump, hard and brittle, 
spoken of bread 

Crunt, a blow on the 
head with a cudgel 

Cuif, a blockhead, a nin- 
ny 

Cunnnock, a short staff 
with a crooked head 

Curchie, a curtsey 

Curler, a player at a 
game on the ice, prac- 
tised in Scotland, call- 
ed curling 

Curlie, curled, whose 
hair falls naturally in 
linglets 

Curling, a well known 
game on ice 

Curmurring, murmur- 
ing, a slight rumbling 
noise 

Ciirpin, the crupper 

Cushat, the dove, or 
wood-pigeon 

Cutty, short, a spoon 
broken in the middle 

D. 

Daddie, a father 
Baffin, merriment, fool- 
ishness 
Daft, merry, giddy, fool- 
ish 
Daimen, rare, now and 
then; daimen-icker, an 
ear of corn now and 
then 
Dainty, pleasant, good- 
humoured, agreeable 
Dales, plains, valleys 
Darklins, darkling 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse 
Daur, to dare 
Daurt, dared 
Daurg, or datirk, a day's 

labour 
Davie, David 
Da-wd, a large piece 
Datotit, or dawtet, fond- 
led, caressed 
Dearies, dimin. of dears 
Dearthfu\ dear 
Deave, to deafen 
Deil-ma-care ! no mat- 
ter ! for all that ! 
Deleerit, delirious 
Descrive, to describe 
Dight, to wipe, to clean 
corn from chaff 



Dight, cleaned from 
chaff 

Dinna, do not 

Ding, to worst, to push 

Dirl, a slight tremulous 
stroke or pain 

Dizzen, or t/iz'/i, a do- 
zen 

Doited, stupified, hebe- 
tated 

Dolt, stupified, crazed 

Donsie, unlucky 

Dool, sorrow; to sing 
dool, to lament, to 
mourn 

Doos, doves 

Dorty, saucy, nice 

Douce, or douse, sober, 
wise, prudent 

Doucely, sobei-ly, pru- 
dently 

Doughty was or Avere a- 
ble 

Doup, backside 

Doup-skelper, one that 
strikes the tail 

Dour and din, sullen, 
sallow 

Doure, stout, durable, 
stubborn, sullen 

Dorv, am or are able, 
can 

Dowff, pithless, wanting 
force 

Dowie, worn with grief, 
fatigue, &c., half a- 
sleep 

DoTvna, am or are not 
able, cannot 

Day It, stupid 

Drap, a drop ; to drop 

Drapping, dropping 

Drauniing, drawling 

Dreep, to ooze, to di-op 

Dreigh, tedious, long a- 
bout it 

Z)rJ66Ze, drizzling, slaver 

Drift; a drove 

Droddum, the bveech 

Drone, part of a bag- 
pipe 

Droop, rumpl't, that 
droops at the crupper 

Drouket, wet 

Drouth, thirst, drought 

Drucken, drunken 

Drumly, muddy 

Drummock, meal and 
water mixed, raw 

Drunt, pet, sour hu- 
mour 

Dub, a small pond 
Duddie, ragged 
Duds, rags, clothes 
Dung, worsted, pushed, 

driven 
Dunted, bent 



Dush, to push as a ram, 

&c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, 

ox, &c. 

E. 

£'e, the eye 

Een, the eyes 

E^enen, evening 

Eerie, frighted, dreading 
spirits 

Eild, old age 

Elbuck, the elbow 

Eldritch, ghastly, fright- 
ful 

En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh 

Eneugh, enough 

Especial, especially 

Ettle, to try, attempt 

Eydenty diligent 

F. 

Fa\ fall, lot ; to fall 

Fc'j, does fall, water- 
falls 

Faddoni't, fathomed 

Fae, foe 

Faem, foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairin, a fairing, a pre- 
sent 

Falloxv, fellow 

Fand, did find 

Farl, a cake of bread 

Fash, trouble, care ; to 
trouble, to care for 

Fasht, troubled 

Fastereen-een, Fastens 
Even 

Fauld, a fold, to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Fawsont, decent, seem- 

ly 

Feal, a fi eld, smooth 

Fearfu'', frightful 

Fear''t, frighted 

Feat, neat, spruce 

Fecht, to fight 

Fcchtin, fighting 

Feck, many, plenty 

Fecket, waistcoat 

Feckfu\ large, brauny, 
stout 

Feckless, puny, weak, 
silly 

Feckly, weakly 

Peg, a fig 

Feide, feud, enmity 

Fell, keen, biting ; the 
flesh immediately un- 
der the skin, a field 
pretty level, on the 
side or top of a hill 



Fen, successful struggle, 
fight 

Fend, to live comforta. 
bly 

Ferlie, or fer ley, to won- 
der; a wonder, a 
term of contempt 

Fetch, to pull by fits 

FetchH, pulled intermit- 
tently 

Fidge, to fidget 

Fiel, soft, smooth 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath 

Fier, sound, healthy; a 
brother, a friend 

Fisle, to make a rust- 
ling noise, to fidget; 
a bustle 

Fit, a foot 

Fittie-lan, the nearer 
horse of the hindmost 
pair in the plough 

Fizz, to make a hissing 
noise, like fermenta- 
tion 

Flainen, flannel 

Fleech, to supplicate in 
a flattering manner 

FleecK'd, supplicated 

Fleechin, supplicating 

Fleesh, a fleece 

Fk'g, a kick, a random 
blow 

Flcther, to decoy by fair 
words 

Fletherin, flattering 

Fley, to scare, to frigljt- 
en 

FUchter, to flutter, as 
young nestlings, when 
their dam approaches 

Flickering, meeting, en- 
countering with 

Flinders, sherds, broken 
pieces 

Flingin-trec, a piece of 
timber hung by way 
of partition between 
two horses in a stable, 
a flail 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke 

Fliskit, fretted 

Flitter, to vibrate like 
the wings of small 
birds 

Flittering, fluttering, vi- 
brating 

Flunkle, a servant in li- 
very 

Foord, a ford 

Forbears, forefathers 

Forbye, besides 

Forfairn, distressed, 
worn out, jaded 

Forfoughtcn, fatigued 

Forgather, to meet, to 
encounter with 



528 



GLOSSARY. 



Forgie, to forgive 

Fo/jesket, jaded with fa- 
tigvie 

Father, foddei- 

Foil', full, dnink 

Foughten. troubled, ha- 
rassed 

Fovth, plenty, enough, 
or more tlian enough 

Fo7v, a bushel, Sec. also 
a pitch-fork 

Frae, from 

Freath, froth 

Fvien\ friend 

Fu\ full 

Fuel, the scut, or tail of 
the liai'e, coney, &c. 

Fuff, to blow intermit- 
tently 

Fuff't, did blow 

Funnie, full of merri- 
ment 

Fui\ a furrow 

Furm, a form, bench 

Fyke, trifling cares ; to 
piddlCj to be in a fuss 
about trifles 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty 

Fyl% soiled, dirtied 

G. 

Gab, the mouth, to speak 
boldly, or pertly 

Gaber-!itnzre,a.n old man 

Gaif small, plough-boy, 
the boy that drives 
the hoi-ses in the 
plough 

Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; 
gaen, or gane, gone ; 
gaun, going 

Gaet, or gate, way. man- 
ner, road 

Gang, to go, to walk 

Gar, to make, to force to 

Gar't, forced to 

Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise, sagacious, 
talkative, to converse 

Gashin, conversing 

Gaucy, jolly, large 

Gear, riches, goods of 
any kind 

Geek, to toss the head in 
wantonness or scorn 

Ced, a pike 

Gentles, great folks 

Geordie, a guinea 

Get, a child, a young one 

Ghaist, a ghost 

Cle, to give ; gled, gave ; 
gien, given 

Giftie, dimin. of gift 

Giglets, playful girls 

Gillie, dimin. of gill 

Gilpey, a half grown, 



half informed boy or 
girl, a roiuping lad, a 
hoj'den 
Giminer, an ewe from 
one to two years old 

Gin, if, against 

Gipsey, a young girl 

Girn, to grin, to twist 
the features in rage, 
agony, &c. 

Girning, grinning 

Gizz, a periwig 

Glaikit, inattentive, fool- 
ish 

Glaive, a sword 

Gaiuky, half-witted, fool- 
ish, i-omping 

Glaizie, glittering, 

smooth like a glass 

Glauni'd, aimed, snatch- 
ed 

Gleck, or gleg, sharp, 
ready 

Gleib, glebe 

Glen, dale, deep valley 

Gley, a squint, to squint; 
a-gley, off at a side, 
wrong 

Gleib-gabbet, that speaks 
smoothly and readily 

Glint, to peep 

Glinted, peeped 

Glintin, peeping 

Gloamin, the twilight 

Gloivr, to stare, to look ; 
a stare, a look 

Glowred, looked, stared 

Gowan, the flower of the 
daisy,dandelion,hawk- 
weed, &c. 

Gowany, gowany glens, 
daisied dales 

Goivd, gold 

GoTuff, the game of golf ; 
to strike as the bat 
does the ball at golf 

Goivjp'd, struck 

GoTck^ a cuckoo, a term 
of contemi)t 

Gowl,x.o howl 

Grane, ov grain, a gi'oan, 
to groan 

Grained, groaned 

Grained and grunted, 
groaned and grunted 

Graining, gx'oaning 

Graip, a pronged instru- 
ment for cleaning sta- 
bles 

Graith, accouti-ements, 
furniture dress, gear 

Grannie, grandmother 

Grape, to grope 

Grapit, groped 

Grat, wept, shed tears 

Great, intimate, fami- 
liar 



Gree, to agree ; to bear 
the gree, to be deci- 
dedly victor 

Gree'^t, agreed 

Greet, to shed tears, to 
weep 

Greetin, crying, weep- 
ing 

Grippet, catched, seized 

Groat, to get the -whistle 
of one^s groat, to play 
a losing game 

Gronsome, loathsomely, 
grim 

Grozet, a gooseberry 

Grumph, a grunt, to 
grunt 

Grumphie, a sow 

Grun"", ground 

Grunstane, a grindstone 

Griintle, the phiz, a 
grunting noise 

Grunzie, mouth 

Grushie, thick, of thriv- 
ing growth 

Gude, the Supreme Be- 
ing ; good 

Guid, good 

Guid-mornin, good mor- 
row 

Gnid-e''en, good evening 

Gicidman and giiidwife, 
the master and mis- 
tress of the house ; 
young guidtnan. a 
man newly married 

Gully, or gullie, a large 
knife 

Gnidfather, Guidmother, 
father-iu-law, mother- 
in-law 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

H. 

Ha\ hall 

Ha'' bible, the great bible 
that lies in the hall 

Hae, to have 

Haen, had, the participle 

Haet.fient hact, a petty 
oath of negation, no- 
thing 

Hajfet, the temple, the 
side of the head 

Hafflins, nearly half, 
partly 

Rag, a scar, or gulf in 
mosses and moors 

Haggis, a kind of pud- 
ding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or 
sheep 

Hain, to spare, to save 

Hani'd, spai-ed 

Uairst, harvest 



Haith, a petty oath 
Haivers, nonsense, 

speaking without 

thought 
HaP, or hald, an abiding 

place 
Hale, whole, tight, heal- 
thy 
Haly, holy 
Hame, home 
Hallan, a particular par- 
tition wall in a cot- 
tage; 01% more pro- 
perly, a seat of turf 
at the outside 
Hallorvmas, Hallow-eve, 

the 31st of October 
Hamely, homely, affable 
Han\ or haiai*, hand 
Hap, an outer garment, 
mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover, to hap 
Happer, a hopper 
Happing, hopping 
Hap step an'' loup, hop 

skip and leap 
Harkit, hearkened 
Ham, very coarse linen 
Hash, a fellow that nei- 
ther knows how to 
dress nor act with 
propriety 
Hastit, hastened 
Haud, to hold 
Houghs, low lying, rich 

lands ; valleys 
Haurl, to drag, to peel 
Haurliti, peeling 
Haveral, a half-witted 

person, half-witted 
Havins, good manners, 

decorum, good sense 
Harvkie, a cow, properly 
one ivith a white face 
Heapit, heaped 
Healsonie, healthful, 

wholesome 
Hearse, hoarse 
Hearst, hear it 
Heather, heath 
Hech ! oh .' strange 
Heeht, promised to fore- 
tel something that is 
to be got or given ; 
offered ; foretold ; the 
thing foretold 
Heckle, a board in which 
are fixed a number of 
pins, used in dressing 
hemp, flax, &c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to 

raise 
Helm, the rudder or 

helm 
Herd, to tend flocks, one 

who tends flocks 
Herrin, a herring 



GLOSSARY. 



329 



ilerry, to plunder, niu^l 
properly to plunder 
birds'' nests 
Herryment, plundering-, 

devastation 
Hcrsel, herself, also a 
herd of cattle, of any 
sort 
Het, hot 
Hengh, a crag, a coal-pit 

Hilch, a hobble, to halt 

Hilchin, halting 

Himsel, himself 

Hiney, honey 

Hing, to hang 

Hi7ple, to walk crazily, 
to creep 

Hissel, so many cattle as 
one person can attend 

Histie, diy, chapt, barren 

Hitcht, a loop, a knot 

Hizzie, hussy, a young 
girl 

Hoddin, the motion of a 
sage countrjTman, x*i- 
ding on a cart-horse ; 
humble 

Hog-score, a kind of dis- 
tance line, in curling, 
drawn across the rink 

Hog'shouthcr, a kind of 
horse-play, byjustling 
with the shoulder ; to 
justle 

Hool, outer skin or case, 
a nut-shell, pease- 
swade 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 

Hoolie! take leisure, stop 

Hoard, a hoard ; to hoard 

Hoordet, hoarded 

Horn, a spoon made of 
horn 

Hornie, one of the many 
names of the devil 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; 
a cough 

Hostin, coughing 

Hotch'd, turned topsy- 
turvey, blended, mix- 
ed 

Houghmagandie, forni- 
cation 

Houlet, an owl 

Housic, dimin. of house 

Hove, to heave, to swell 

Huv''d, heaved, swelled 

Howdie, a midwife 

Howe, hollow, a hollow 
or dell 

Hoivcbackit, sunk in the 
back, spoken of a 
horse, <b'c. 

Hoivff. a landlady, a 
house of resort 

HoTvk, to dig 

Hoivkit, digged 



Jfowkiii, digging 
How let, an owl 
Ho7j, to urge 
HoyH, urged 
Hoysc, a pull upwards 
Hoy/., to amble crazily 
Hughoc, dimin. of Hugh 
Hurcheon, hedgehog 
Hurdies, the loins, the 

crupper 
Hushion, cushion 

I. 

/',in 

Icker, an ear of corn 
ler-oe, a great-grand- 
child 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every 
Ill-Tu>illie, ill-natured, 

malicious, niggardly 
/n^ine,genius, ingenuity 
Ingle, fire, fire-place 
Ise, I shall or will 
Ither, other, one ano- 
ther 

J. 

Jad, jade ; also a fami- 
liar term among coun- 
ti-y folks for a giddy 
young girl 

Jatik, to dally, to trifle 

Jaukin, ti-ifling, dallying 

Jaup, a jerk of water; 
to jerk as agitated 
water 

Jaw, coarse raillery, to 
pour out, to shut, to 
jerk as water 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl 

Jimp, to jump; slender 
in the waist,handsome 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a 
corner; a sudden turn- 
ing, a corner 

Jinker, that turns quick- 
ly, a gay sprightly 
girl, a wag 

Jinkin, dodging 

Jirt, a jerk 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow 
the head 

Jow, tojow, a verb which 
includes both the 
swinging motion and 
pealing sound of a 
large bell 

Jiindie, to justle 

K. 

Kae, a daw 

Kail, colewort, a kind of 
broth 



Kail-runt, the stem of 
colewort 

Kain. fowls, &c, paid as 
rent by a farmer 

Kebbuck, a cheese 

Keek, a petp, to peep 

Kelpies, a sort of mis- 
chievous spirits, said 
to haunt fords and 
ferries at night, espe- 
cially in storms 

Ken, to know ; kend or 
A:enV. knew, known 

Kennin, a small matter 

Kcuspeckle, well-known 

Ket, matted, hairy, a 
fleece of wool 

Kiaugh, carking,anxiety 

Kilt, to toss up the 
clothes 

Kinimer, a young girl, a 
gossip 

Kin\ kindred 

Kin, kind 

King''s-hood, a certain 
part of the entrails of 
an ox, &c. 

Kintra, country ; kin- 
tra-cooser, country 
stallion 

Kirn, the harvest-sup- 
per, a churn 

Kirsen, to christen, or 
baptize 

Kist, chest, a shop-coun- 
ter 

Kitchen, any thing that 
eats with bread, to 
serve for soup, gravy, 
&e. 

Kittle, to tickle, ticklish, 
likely 

Kittlin, a young ci^t 

Kiuttle, to cuddle 

Kiuttlin, cuddling 

Knaggie, like knags, or 
points of rocks 

Knappin-hammer, a 
hammer for breaking 
stones 

Knowe, a small round 
hillock 

Kye, cows 

Kyle, a district in Ayi-- 
shire 

Kytc, the belly 

Kythe, to discover, to 
show one's self 

L. 

Laddie, dimin. of lad 
Laggen, the angle be-! 
tween the side and 
bottom of a wooden 
dish 
Luigh, low 

Tt 



Lairing, wading and 
sinking in snow, mud, 
&c. 

Laith, loath 

Laitlifii', bashful, sheep- 
ish 

Lallans, Scottish dia- 
lect 

Lanibie. dimin. of lamb 

Lan\ laud, estate 

Lane, lone ; my lane, 
thy lane, &c. myself 
alone 

Lanely, lonely 

Lajig, long; to think 
lang, to long, to weary 

Lap, did leap 

Lave, the rest, the re- 
mainder, the others 

Laverock, the lark 

Lawin, short, reckon- 
ing bill 

Larvlan, lowland 

Lea''e, to leave 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful 

Lear, pronounced lare, 
learning 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge 

Lee-laug, live-long 

Leesonie, pleasant 

Leeze me, a phrase of 
congratulatory en- 
dearment ; I am hap- 
py in thee, or proud 
of thee 

Leister, a three.pronged 
dart for striking fish 

Leugh, did luugh 

Leak, a look ; to look 

Lz66ef, gelded 

Lift, sky 

Lightly, sneeriiigly ; to 
sneer at 

Lilt, a ballad, a tune ; 
to sing 

Limnier, a kept mis- 
tress, a strumpet 

Lim/Jtt, a kind of shell- 
fish 

Limpet, limped, hobbled 

Link, to trip along 

Linkin, tripping 

Linn, a waterfall 

Lint, flax ; lint V the 
bell, flax in flower 

Lintwhlte, a linnet 

Lomi, or loanin, the 
place of milking 

Loof the palm of the 
hand 

Loot, did let 

Looves, plural of loaf 

Loun, a fellow, a raga- 
mufliu, a woman of 
easy virtue 

Loup, jump, leap; to 
jump, 10 leap 



330 



GLOSSARY. 



LoTv, a flame 

Loivin, flaming 

Loxvrie, abbreviation of 
Lavvi-cnce 

Lorvse, to loose 

Lo7vs'd, loosed 

Lug, tlie car, a handle 

Lugget, having a handle 

Luggie, a small wooden 
dish with a handle 

Lum, the chimney 

Lunch, a large piece of 
cheese, flesh, &c. 

Lunt, a column of 
smoke ; to smoke 

Luntin, smoking 

Lijart, of a mixed co- 
lour, grey 

M. 

Mae, more 

Maileru farm 

Mail-, more 

Maist, most, almost 

Maistly, mostly 

Mak, to make 

Makin, making 

Mallie, Molly 

Mnng, among 

Manse, the parsonage- 
house, where the mi- 
nister lives 

Manteelc, a mantle 

Mark, marks. This and 
several other nouns 
•which in English re- 
quire an s, to form 
the plural, are in 
Scotch, like the rvords 
sheep, deer, the same 
in both nutnbers 

Mar''s year, the year 
1715 

Mashtum, meslin, mixed 
corn 

Mask, to mash, as malt, 
liyc, 

Mnskin-pat, a tea-pot 

Maukin, a hare 

Mann, must 

Mavis, the thrush 

Marv, to mow 

Marvin, mowing 

Meere, a mare 

Meickle, much 

Meluncholiuus, mourn- 
ful 

Melder, corn, or grain of 
any kind, sent to the 
mill to be ground 

Meli, to meddle ; also a 
mullet for pouiidiiig 
barley in a Stone 
trough 



Mclvie, to soil with meal 

Men\ to mend 

Mense, good manners, 
decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, 
impudent 

Merle, 

Messin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at 
the bottom of a dung- 
hill 

Mim, prim, affectedly 
meek 

Min\ mind, remem- 
brance 

Mind^t, mind it, resolv- 
ed, intending 

Minnie, mother, dam 

Mirk, dark 

Misca, to abuse, to call 
names 

Misca''d, abused 

Mislear''d, mischievous, 
unmannerly 

Misteuk, mistook 

Mither, a mother 

Mixtie-maxtie, cojifu- 
sedly mixed 

Moistify, to moisten 

Many, or monie, many 

Moop, to nibble as a 
sheep 

Moorlati, of or belong- 
ing to moors 

Morn, the next day, to- 
morrow 

Mou, the month 

Moudirvort, a mole 

Mousie, diniin. of viotise 

Muckle, or mickle, great, 
big, much 

Musie, dimin. of muse 

Muslin-kail, broth, com- 
posed simply of wa- 
ter, shelled barley, 
and gi'eens 

Mutchkin, an English 
pii;t 

Mysel, myself 

N. 

Na^, no, not, nor 
Nae, no, not any 
Naething, or naithing, 

nothing 
Ifaig, a horse 
Nanc, nojie 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsey 
Negleckit, neglected 
Neebor, a neighbour 
Neuk, nook 
Niest, next 
Nieve.iim fist 



Nievefu'', handful 

Niffer, an exchange ; to 
exchange, to barter 

Niger, a negro 

Nine-tailed-cat, a hang- 
man's whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belong- 
ing to the north 

Notic'f, noticed 

Nozvt, black cattle 



0', of 

Ochels, name of moun- 
tains 

Ony, or onie, any 

haith ! O faith ! an 
oath 

Or, is often used for ere, 
before 

OV, of it 

Ourie, shivering, droop- 
ing 

Oursel, or oursels, our- 
selves 

Outlers, cattle not hous- 
ed 

Oivcr, over, too 

Owre-hip, a way of 
fetching a blow with 
the hammer over the 
arm 

P. 

Pack, intimate, familiar; 
twelve stone of wool 

Painch, paunch 

Paitrick, a partridge 

Pang, to cram 

Parle, speech 

Parr itch, oatmeal pud- 
ding, a well-known 
Scotch dish 

Pat. (lid put ; a pot 

Battle, or pettle, a 
plough-staff 

Paughty, proud, haugh- 
ty 

Pauky, cunning, sly 

Pmft, paid, beat 

Pech, to fetch the breath 
short, a* i)i an asthma 

Pechan, the crop, the 
stomach 

Peelin, peeling 

Pet, a domesticated 
sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a 
plough-staff 

Philibegs, short petti- 
coats worn by the 
Highlanders 



Phraise, fair speeche?, 
flattery : to flatter 

Phraisin, flattery 

Pickle, a small quantity 

Pine, pain, uneasiness 

Pit, to put 

Placad, a public procla- 
mation ; to publish 
pviblicly 

Plack, an old Scotch 
coin, the 3d part of a 
Scotch penny, 12 of 
which make an Eng- 
lish penny 

Plackless, pennyless, 
without money 

Platie, dimin. of plate 

Plerv, or pleugh, a 
plough 

Pliskie, a trick 

Poind, to seize on cat- 
tle, or take the goods, 
as the laws of Scot- 
land allow for rent 

Poortith, poverty 

Pou, to pull 

Pouk, to pluck 

Poussie, a hare, or cat 

Pout, a poult, a chick 

Pou't, did pull 

Pouthery, like powder 

Pow. the head, the skull 

PoivHie, a little horse 

PoTvther, or poiither. 
powder 

Preen, a pin 

Prent, printing 

Prie, to taste 

Priced, tasted 

Prief, pi-oof 

Prig, to cheapen, to 
dispute 

Priggin, cheapening 

Pri7nsie, demure, pre- 
cise 

Propone, to lay down, 
to propose 

Provoses, provosts 

Pund, pound, pouuds 

Pyle, a pyle o' caff, a 
single grain of chaff 

Q. 

Qxiat, to quit 
Ouak, to quake 
^uey, a cow from one 
to two years old 

R. 

Rag7veed, herb, ragwort 
Roibic, to rattle non- 
sense 
Rair, to roar 



GLOSSARY. 



331 



Raize, to madden, to 
inflame 

Ram-fcezl^d, fatigued, 
overspread 

Rain-stam, tlioughtless, 
forward 

Rap loch, properly a 
coarse cloth, but used 
as an adnotin for 
coarse 

Rarely, excellently, very 
well 

Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, 
a bush of rushes 

Ration, a rat 

Raucle, rash, stout, fear- 
less 

Raiight. reached 

Ra^v, a row 

Rax', to stretch 

Ream, cream ; to cream 

Reainin, brimful, froth- 
ing 

Reave, rove 

Reck, to heed 

Rede, counsel ; to coun- 
sel 

Red-wat-shod, waJking 
in blood over the shoe 
tops 

Red-wud, stark mad 

i?ee, half drunk, fuddled 

Reek, smoke 

Reekin, smoking 

Reekit. siuoked, smoky 

Remcad, remedy 

Requite, requited 

Rest, to stand restive 

Restit, stood restive, 
stunted, withered 

Restricked, restricted 

Reiv, repent 

Rief, reef, plenty 

Rief randies, sturdy beg- 
gars 

Rig, a ridge 

Rin, to run, to melt ; 
riinin, running 

Rink, the course of the 
stones, a term in curl- 
ing on ice 

Rip, a handful of un- 
threshed corn 

Riskit, made a noise 
like the tearing of 
roots 

Rockin, see App./>. 295. 

Rood, stands likewise for 
the plural roods 

Roon, a shi*ed 

Roose, to praise, to com- 
mend 

Roun\ round, in the cir- 
cle of neighbourhood 

Roupet, hoarse, as with 

a cold 
Roiv, to roll, to wTap 



Roxv''t, rolled, wrapped 

Rorvte, to low, to bellow 

Ro7vth, plenty 

Rotvth o' gear, plenty of 
goods 

Rorvtin, lowing 

Rozet, rosin 

Rung, a cudgel 

Runt, tlie stem of cole- 
wort or cabbage 

Rankled, wrinkled 

Ruth, a woman's name ; 
the book so called ; 
sorrow 



Sae, so 
Sr/ft, soft 

Sair, to serve ; a sore 
Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 
Sairh, served 
Sark, a shirt 
Sark/t, provided in shirts 
Saugh, the willow 
Saul, soul 
Sauniont, salmon 
Saiint, a saint 
Saut, salt 
Sniv, to sow 
Sa7vin, sowing 
Sao:, six 

Scaith. to damage, to in- 
jure; injury 
Scar, to scar; a scare 
Scaud, to scald 
Scautd, to scold 
Scaur, apt to be scared 
Scaivl, a scold 
.Scon, a kind of bread 
Scanner, a loathing ; to 

loath 
Scraich, to scream, as a 

hen, partridge, (ire. 
Screed, to tear ; a rent 
Scrieve, to glide swiftly 

along 
Scrievin, gleesomely, 

swiftly 
Scrimp, to scant 
Scrimpet, did scant, 

scanty 
See''d, did see 
Seizen, seizing 
Sel, self; a hody^s sel, 

one's self alone 
SelPt, did sell 
Se7i\ to send 
Sen''t, I, he, or she sent, 

or did send ; send it 
Se7'van\ servant 
Settlin, settling ; to get a 

settiin, to be frighted 

into quietness 
Sets, sets off, goes a- 

way 
S/taird, a shred, a simrd 



Shangan, a stick cleft 
at one end for putting 
the tail of a dog, &c. 
into, by way of niis- 
diief, or to frighten 
him away 

Shaver, a humourous 
wag, a barber 

Sharv, to shew ; a small 
wood in a hollow 
place 

Sheen, bright, shining 

Sheepshank, to think 
one's self nac sheep- 
shank, to be conceit- 
ed 

Sherra-moor, Sheriff- 
moor, the famous hat- 
tie fought in the Re- 
bellion, A. D. 1715 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, 
a sluice 

Shiel, a shed 

Shill,%hv\\\ 

Shog, a shock, a push off 
at one side 

Shool, a shovel 

Shoon, shoes 

Shore, to offer, to threa- 
ten 

Shor''d, offered 

Shouther, the shoulder 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidelins, sidelong, slant- 
ing 

Siller, silver, money 

Simmer, summer 

Sin, a sun 

Sin'', since 

Skaith, to damage, to in- 
jure; injury 

Skeigh, proud, nice,high- 
mettled 

Skellunt, a worthless fel- 
low 

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; 
to walk with a smart 
tripping step ; a smart 
stroke 

Skelpi-Ummer, a techni- 
cal term in female 
scolding 

Skelpin, stappin, walk- 
ing 

Skiegh, proud, nice, 
high-mettled 

Skinklin, a small por- 
tion 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry 
shrilly 

Skirling, shrieking, cry- 
ing 

SkirPt, shrieked 

Sklent, slant ; to run a- 
slant, to deviate from 
truth 



Sklented, ran, or hit, in 
an obliqv.e direction 

Skreigh, a scream ; to 
scream 

Slae, sloe 

Slade, did slide 

Staj), a gate, a breach in 
a fence 

Sknv, slow 

Slee, sly ; sleest, slyest 

Sleekit, sleek, shy 

S/ifldery, slippery 

Slype, to fall over, as a 
wet farrow from the 
plough 

Slypet, fell 

Sma'', small 

Smeddum, dust, powder, 
mettle, sense 

Siniddy, a smithy 

Smoor. to smother 

Smoor^d, smothered 

Smautie, smutty, ob- 
scene, ugly 

Smytiic, a numerous 
collection of small in- 
dividuals 

Snapper, stumble 

Snash, abuse, Billings- 
gate 

S?taw, snow ; to snow 

Snaw-boo, melted snow 

Snaivie, snowy 

Sneck, a latch of a door 

Sued, to lop, to cut off 

Sneeshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mdl, a snuff- 
box 

Snell, bitter, biting 

Snick-drawing, trick, 
contriving 

Snick, the latchet of a 
door 

Snool, one whose spirit 
is broken with op- 
pressive slavery ; to 
submit tamely, to 
sneak 

Siioove, to go smoothly 
and constantly, to 
sneak 

Snoivk, to scent or snuff, 
as a dog, horse, &c. 

Snowkit, scented, snuff- 
ed 

Sonsie, having sweet en- 
gaging looks ; lucky, 
jolly 

Soom, to swim 

Sooth, truth, a petty 
oath 

So7vens, a dish made of 
oat-ni' al, ihe seeds of 
oat-meal sow red, &.e. 
boiled up till they 
make an agreeablt- 
puddincf 



332 



GLOSSARY. 



Sough, a sigh, a sound 
dying on the ear 

Souple, flexihie, swift 

Souter, a shoemaker 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small 
quantity of any thing 
liquid 

SoTvth, to try over a tune 
with a low whistle 

Sowther, solder ; to sol- 
der, to cement 

Spae, to prophesy, to di- 
vine 

Spaul, a limb 

Spuirge, to dash, to soil, 
as 7vlth mire. 

Spaviet, having the spa- 
vin 

Speat, or spate, a sweep- 
ing torrent, after rain 
or thaw 

Spcel, to climb 

Spence, the country par- 
lour 

Spier, to ask, to inquire 

Spier'^t, inquired 

Splatter, a splutter ; to 
splutter 

Spleughan, a tobacco- 
pouch 

Splore, a frolic, a noise, 
riot 

Spratile, to scramble 

Spreckled, spotted, 

speckled 

Spring, a quick air in 
music, a Scottish reel 

Sprit, a tough-rooted 
plant, something like 
rushes 

Spj-ittie, full of sprits 

Spunk, fire, mettle, wit 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fi- 
ery ; will'O-wisp, or 
ignis-fatuus 

Spurtle, a stick used in 
making oat-meal pud- 
ding or porridge, a 
notable Scotch dish 

Squad, a crew, a parry 

Squatter, to flutter in 
water, as a -wild duck. 
&c. 

Sqtiattle, to sprawl 

Squeel, a scream, a 
screech; to scream 

Stacker, to stagger 

Stack, a rick of corn, 
hay. Sec. 

Staggie, diniin. of stag 

Stalwart, strong, stout 

Slant'*, to stand ; staift, 
did stand 

Stane, a stone 

Stank, did stink ; a pool 
of standing water 

Slap, stop 

Stark, stoul. 



Startle, to run as cattle 
stung brj the gadfly 

Staumrel, a blockhead, 
half-witted 

StUTv, did steal, to sur- 
feit 

Stech, to ci*am the belly 

Stechin, cramming 

Steek, to shut ; a stitch 

Steer, to molest, to stir 

Steeve, firm, compact- 
ed 

Stell, a still 

Sten, to rear as a horse, 
to stride 

Steri't, reared 

Stents, tribute, dues of 
any kind 

Stey, steep ; steyest, 
steepest 

Stibble, stubble ; stibble- 
rig, the reaper in har- 
vest who takes the 
lead 

Stick an stow, totally, al- 
together 

Stilt, a crutch ; to halt, 
to limp 

Stimpart, the eighth part 
of a Winchester bush- 
el 

Stirk, a cow or bullock 
a year old 

Stock, a plant or root of 
colewort,cabbage, &c. 

Stockin, stocking; throw- 
ing the stocking when 
the bride and bride- 
groom are put into 
b«d, and the candle 
out, the former throws 
a stocking at random 
among the company, 
and the person whom 
it strikes is the next 
that will be married 

Stooked, made up in 
shocks as corn 

Stoor, sounding hollow, 
strong, and hoarse 

Siot, an ox 

Stouf), or storvp, a kind 
of jug or dish with a 
handle 

Stoure, dust, more par- 
ticularly dust in mo- 
tion 

Stotvllns, by stealth 

Stown. stolen 

Stoyte, stumble 

Strack, did strike 

Strae, straw ; to die a 
fair strae death, to 
die in bed 

Siraik, did strike 

Straikit, stroked 

Strappan, tall and hand- 
some 



Straught, straight 

Sti-eek, stretched, to 
stretch 

Striddle, to straddle 

Stroan, to spout, to piss 

Studdie, an anvil 

Stumpie, dimin. of stump 

Strwit, spirituous liquor 
of any Ivind ; to walk 
sturdily 

Stu^, corn or pulse of 
any kind 

Sturt, trouble; to mo- 
lest 

Sturtin, frighted 

Sucker, sugar 

Sud, should 

Sugh, the continued 
rushing noise of wind 
or water 

Suthron, southern, an 
old name for the Eng- 
lish nation 

Swaird, sward 

SwaWd, swelled 

Swank, stately, jolly 

Swankie, or swanker, 
a tight strapping 
young fellow or girl 

Swap, an exchange ; to 
barter 

Swarf, swoon 

Sivat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

Swats, drink, good ale 

Sweaten, sweating 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; 
dead-sweer, extreme- 
ly averse 

Swoor, swore, did swear 

Swinge, to beat, to whip 

Swirlie, knaggy, full of 
knots 

Srvirl, a curve, an eddy- 
ing blast, or pool, a 
knot in wood 

Swith, get away 

Swither, to hesitate in 
choice ; an irresolute 
wavering in choice 

Syne, since, ago, then 



Taokets, a kind of nails 
for driving into the 
hieels of shoes 

Tae, a toe ; three tae^d, 
having three prongs 

Tairge, target 

Tak, to take ; takin, tak- 
ing 

TamtaUan, the name of 
a mountain 

Tangle, a sea-weed 

Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless, fool- 
ish » 



Tarrow, to murmur &t 
one's allowance 

Tarrow't, murmured 

TarryJjreeks, a sailor 

Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish 
thoughtless young 
person 

Touted, or tautie, mat- 
ted together, spoken 
of hair or rvool 

Tawie, that allows itself 
peaceably to be hand- 
led, spoken of a horse, 
cow, &c. 

Teat, a small quantity 

Tedding, spreading af- 
ter the mower 

Ten-hours-bite, a slight 
feed to the horses 
while in the yoke, in 
the forenoon 

Tent, a field pulpit, heed, 
caution, to take heed 

Tentie, heedful, cau- 
tious 

Tentless, heedless 

Teugh, tough 

Thack, thatch ; thack an 
rape, clothing, neces- 
saries 

Thae, these 

Thairms, small guts, 
fiddle-strings 

Thankii, thanked 

Theckit, thatched 

Thegither, together 

Themsel, themselves 

Thick, intimate, familiar 

Thieveless, cold, dry, 
spited, spoken of a 
persoii's demeanour 

Thir, these 

Thirl, to thrill 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrat- 
ed 

Thole, to sufl^er, to en- 
dure 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw 

Tho7vless, slack, lazy 

Thrang, throng, a crowd 

Thrapple, throat, wind- 
pipe 

Throw, to sprain, to 
twist, to contradict 

Thrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrown, sprained, twist- 
ed, contradicted ; con- 
tradiction 

Threap, to maintain by 
dint of assertion 

Threshin, thrashing 

Thretcen, thirteen 

Thristle, thistle 

Through, to go on with, 
to make out 

Throuther, pell-mell, 
confusedly 



GLOSSARY. 



Thud, to make a loud 
intermittent noise 

Thumplt, thumped 

Thijscl, tliyself 

TilVt, to it 

Tbnmer, timber 

Tine, to lose : tint, lost ; 
tint the gate, lost the 
way 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tip, a ram 

Tippence, two-pence 

Tirl, to make a slight 
noise, to uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

Tittlin, whispering 

Tocher, marriage por- 
tion 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like 
the walk of a child 

Toddlin, tottering 

Tooth, empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm- 
house 

Tout, the blast of a horn, 
or trumpet ; to blow 
a horn, &c. 

ToTv, a rope 

ToTvmond, a twelve- 
month 

Towzie, rough, shaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion 
of female head-dress 

Toijte, to totter like old 
age 

Transmtigrifi/d, trans- 
migrated, metamor- 
phosed 

Trashtrie, trash 

Trervs, trowsers 

Trickle, full of tricks 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trimly, excellently 

Trorv, to believe 

Troivth, trutli, a petty 
oath 

Trysted, appointe<l ; to 
tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment 

Tri/t, tryed 

Tug, raw hide, of which 
in old times plough 
traces were frequent- 
ly made 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to 
quarrel, to fight 

T7va, two 

TivU'three, a few 

''Tivad, it would 

Tival, twelve ; trval- 
pennie -worth, a small 
quantity, a penny- 
\torlh 



N. B. One penny Eng- 

lish, is 12rf. Scotch 
Twin, to part 
Tyke, a dog 

U. 

Unco, strange, uncouth ; 
very, very great, pro- 
digious 

Uncos, news 

Unkejvi'd, unknown 

Unsicker, unsure, un- 
steady 

Unskaitk''d, undamaged, 
unhurt 

Unweettng, un wotting, 
unknowing 

Upo'*, upon 

Urchin, a hedge-hog 



Vap^rin, vapouring 
Vera, very 

Virl, a ring round a co- 
lumn, &c. 

W. 

IVd*, wall; ■wd's, walls 
JVabster, a weaver 
Wad, would, to bet; a 

bet, a pledge 
Wadna, would not 
Wae, woe, sorrowful 
IVaesncks ! or 7vaes me ! 

alas ! O the pity ! 
Waft, woof, the cross 
thread that goes from 
the shuttle through 
the web 
Waifu'', wailing 
Wair, to lay out, to ex- 
pend 
Wale, choice ; to 

chuse 
WaPd, chose, chosen 
Walie, ample, large, jol- 
ly ; also an interjec- 
tion of distress 
Wame, the belly 
Wamefou, a belly-full 
Wanchansie, unlucky 
WanerestfC , restless 
Work, work 
Wark-lume, a tool to 

work with 
Warl, or warld, world 
Warlock, a wizzard 
Warly, worldly, j ijj ; r 
on amassing wealtn 
Warran, a warrant ; to 

warrant 
Worst, worst 
Warstle, wrestling, 

struggle 



WarstPd, or tvarsl'd, 
wrestled 

Wastrie, prodigality 

Wat, wet ; I-ivat, I rvot, 
I know 

Water-brose, brose made 
of meal and water 
simply, without the 
additions of milk^ but- 
ter, &c. 

Wattle, a twig, a wand 

Wauble, to swing, to reel 

Wauglit, draught 

Waukit, thickened as 
fullers do cloth 

Waukrife, not apt to 
sleep 

Waur, worse ; to worst 

WaurH, worsted 

Wean, or weanie, a child 

Hearie, or weary ; ma- 
ny a wearie body, ma- 
ny a different person 

Weason, weasand 

Weaving the stockin. See 
Throiving the Stock- 
ing, page 332 

Wee, little ; wee things, 
little ones ; wee bit, a 
small matter 

Weel, well ; weelfare, 
welfare 

Weet, rain, wetness 

Weird, fate 

We^se, we shall 

Wha, who 

Whalzle, to wheeze 

Whalpit, whelped 

Whang, a leathern 
string, a piece of 
cheese, bread, &c. ; to 
give the strappado 

Whare, where; whare'^er, 
wherever 

Whecp, to fly nimbly, to 
jerk ; penny-wheep, 
small-beer 

Whase, whose 

Whatrcck, nevertheless 

Whid, the motion of a 
hare, running but not 
frighted, a lie 

Whidden, running as a 
hare or coney 

Whigmeleeries, whims, 
fancies, crotchets 

Whingin, cryi)ig, com- 
plaining, fretting 

Whirligigiims, useless 
ornaments, tri.lijig 
appendages 

IVhissle, a whistle ; to 
whistle 

Whisht, silence, to hold 
one''s Tvhist, to be si- 
lent 

Whisky to sweep, to lash 



333 

^hiskit, lashed 

W hitter, a hearty 
draught of liquor 

Whun-stane, a whin- 
stone 

Whyles, whiles, some- 
times 

WV, with 

Wick, to strike a stone 
in an oblique direc- 
tion, a termin curling 

Wicker, willow (the 
smaller sort) 

Wiel, a small whirl-pool 

Wijie, a dimin. or en- 
dearing term for wife 

Wimple, to meander 

WimpVt, meandered 

Wimplin, waving, mean- 
dering 

Win, to wind, to win- 
now 

Win't, winded, as a bot- 
tom of yarn 

Win\ wind; 7vin''s, winds 

Winna, will not 

Winnock, a window 

Winsome, hearty, vaunt- 
ed, gay 

Wintle, a staggering mo- 
tion; to stagger, to 
reel 

Winze, an oath 

Wiss, to wish 

W/thoutten, without 

Wizened. hide-bound, 
dried, shrunk 

Wonner, a wonder, a 
contemptuous appel- 
lation 

Wons, dwells 

Woo'', wool 

Woo, to court, to make 
love to 

Woodie, a rope, more 
properly one made of 
withs or willows 

Wooer bob, the gaiter 
knotted below the 
knee with a couplt- 
of loops 

Wurdy, worthy 

Worset, worsted 

Woiv, an exclamation of 
pleasure or wonder 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex 

Wud-mnd, distracted 

Wamble, a wimble 

Wraith, a spirit, a ghost ; 
an apparition exactly 
like a living person, 
whose appearance is 
said to forebode the 
person's approaching 
death 

Wrong, wrong; to 
wrong 



534 



GLOSSARY. 



Wreeth, a drifted Iieap 

of snow 
Wyle, beguile 
WTjliecoat, a flannel vest 
Tl''tjte, blame ; to blame 

Y. 

Te, this pronoun is frC' 



qucntly used for thou 
Teams, longs much 
Tearlings, born in the 

same year, coevals 
Tear, is used both for 

singular and plural 

years 
21?//, barren, that gives 

no milk 



Terk, to lash, to jerk 
Terkit, jerked, lashed 
Testreen, yesternight 
7'et, a gate, such as is u- 

sually at the entrance 

into a farm-yard or I'ulc, Christmas 

field 
Till ale 
Tird, earth 



Tokin, yoking, a bout 
Tout, beyond 
Toursel, yourself 
Towe, an ewe 
Torvie, dimin. of yotvc 



RELIQUES # 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS; 



CONSISTING CHIEFLY OF 



ORIGINAL 



TETTERS, POEMS, AND CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS 



SCOTTISH SONGS. 



COLLECTED AND PUBLISHED BY 
R. H. CROMEK. 



Ordain'd to fire th' adoring Sons of Earth 
With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 
Or, warm with Fancy's energy to glow, 
And rival all but Shaksi)eare's name below. 

Pleasures of Hope, 



PREFACE. 



ON an occasion of such delicacy as the present- 
ing to the world another volume of the writings of 
Robert Burtis, it becomes the Editor to account for 
his motives in undertaking the publication, and to 
explain his reasons for giving it in the form in 
which it now appears. 

Whatever unhappiness the poet was in his life- 
time doomed to experience, few persons have been 
so fortunate in a biographer as Bums. A strong 
feeling of his excellencies, a perfect discrimination 
of his character, and a just allowance for his 
errors, are the distinguishing features in the work 
of Dr. Currie, who 

" —With kind concern and skill has weav'd 
A silken web ; and ne'er shall fade 
Its colours ; gently has he laid 
The mantle o'er his sad distress. 
And genius shall the texture bless." 



that the hand of the immortal bard has ever traced. 
—In this pursuit I have followed the steps of the 
poet, from the humble cottage in Ayrshire in which 
he was born, to the house in which he died at Dum- 
fries.— I have visited the fai-m of Mossgiel, where he 
resided at the period of his first publication ; I 
have traversed the scenes by the Ayr, the Lugar, 
and the Doon. Sacred haunts ! 

" Where first grim nature's visage hoar 
Struck his young eye ;" 



—And have finally shared in the reverential feel- 
ings of his distinguished biographer*, over the 
hallowed spot where the ashes of the bard are de- 
posjtedt. 



The same judgment and discretion which dic- 
tated the memoirs of the poet, presided also in the 
selection of his writings in the edition by Dr. 
Currie ; of which it may justly be said, that whilst 
no production of Burns could be withdrawn fi-om 
it without diminishing its value, nothing is there 
inserted which can render his works unworthy of 
the approbation of manly taste, or inconsistent 
with the delicacy of female virtue. 

But although no reduction can be made from 
the published works of the poet, it will, it is hoped, 
appear from the following pages, that much may 
be added to them, not unworthy of his genius 
and character. Of these pieces, many had, from 
various causes, never occun-ed to the notice of Dr. 
Currie ; whilst others have been given by him in 
a more imperfect state than that in which they 
will now appear.— These productions of the Scot- 
tish^ bard extend from his earliest to his latest 
years ; and maybe considered as the wild-flowers 
of his muse, which, in the luxuriant vigour of his 
fancy, he scattered as he passdl along. They are 
the result of a most diligent search, in which I 
have used the utmost exertions ; often walking to 
considerable distances, and to obscure cottages, in 
search of a single letter. Many of them have 
been obtained from the generous confidence and 
liberality of their possessors ; some from the hands 
of careless indifference, insensible to their value ; 
others were fast falling to decay, their very exist- 
ence almost forgotten, though glowing with the 
vital warmth m hich is diffused tlirough every line 



* The above passage has a reference to a letter 
from Dr. Currie to Messrs. Cadell and Davies, 
which has been communicated to the Editor, and 
of which the following is an extract. 

June 13, 1804. 

" On my late excursion I visited Mrs. Burns at 
Dumfries. She continues to live in the house in 
which the poet died, and every thing about her 
bespoke decent competence, and even comfort. 
She shewed me the study and small library of her 
husband nearly as he left them. By every thing 
I. hear, she conducts herself irreproachably. 

" From Mrs. Burns's house my son and I went 
to the church-yard at no great distance, to visit 
the grave of the poet. As it is still uninscribed 
we could not have found it, had not a person we 
met M'ith in the church-yard pointed it out. He 
told us he knew Burns well, and that he (Burns) 
himself chose .the spot in which he is buried.— His 
grave is on the north-east conier of the church- 
yard, which it fills up ; and at the side of the 
grave of his two sons, Wallace and Maxwell, the 
first of whom, a lad of great promise, died last 
year of a consumption, the last immediately after 
his father. The spot is well situated for a monu- 
meJit, for which there is money collected, but the 
subscribers, I understand, caiuiot agree as to the 
design." 

t On this little pilgrimage I was accompanied 
Uu 



PREFACE. 



it must not howerer be supposed, that the 
present volume contains the whole, oi- nearly the 
whole of the writings of Bums, which have come 
under iny t*ye, or fallen into my hands ; much less 
have I thought it justifiable to reprint those ex- 
ceptionable pieces, in prose and verse, which have 
been surreptitiously published, or erroneously at- 
tributed to him, and which in every point of view 
ought to have been consigned to oblivion. Not- 
withstanding the vigour which characterises all his 
productions, perhaps there is no author whose 
writings are so difficult to select with a view to 
publication as Burns -, and the very strength and 
exuberance by which they are marked, are in no 
small degree the cause of this difficulty. What- 
ever was tht object, or the idea, of the momeiu, he 
has delineated, or expressed it, with a force and a 
vivacity that brings it before us in all its beauty, 
or all its deformitj . But the subjects of his pen 
were almost r>s various as nature herself; and 
hence it follows, that some of his compositions 
must be discarded, as inconsistent with that deco- 
rum vvhich is due to the public at large. In his 
early jears, Burns had imbibed a strong attach- 
ment to the unfonunate house of Stuart, which 
he seems to have cherished as a patriotic feeling ; 
and as whatever he felt, he felt strongly, his pre- 
judices occasionally burst forth in his writings ; 
and some couipositions of his yet remain, the i>ub- 
lication of which, altliough in these days pei-fectly 
harmless, niighi render the Editor obijpxious to 
the letter, though not to the spirit of the law. If 
the affections of Burns were ardent, his animosi 
ties were scai'cely less so ; and hence some of his 
pieces display a spii'it of resentment, the result of 
the moment, which it would be unjust to his 
memory, as well as to the object of liis satire, to 
revive. These and various other causes, on which 
it would be tedious to dwell, have imposed diffi- 
culties upon me from which I have endeavoured 
to extricate myself according to the best of my 
judgment. If, on the one hand, with the example 
of the former Editor before my eyes, I have re- 
jected whatever I conceived might in any point of 
view be improper for the public eye, I have, on 
the other hand, been anxious not to deprive the 
author, through too fastidious an apprehension of 
indecorum, of those peculiar marks, and that mas- 
culine freedom of thought and expression, which 
so strongly characterise his works. Nor have I 
in this respect trusted wholly to my own judg- 
ment and feelings. Sevei-al persons, some of them 
most nearly connected by the ties of relationship 
with the poet, others distinguished by their literarj' 
attai..mcj;ts, and their well known admiration of 
bis works, have also been consulted. But though 
1 have availed myself of this assistance to the 

by Mr. James M^Clure, a man who, by his punc- 
tuality, his integrity, his benevolence, and the 
uniiorm uprightness of his character, confers re- 
spectability on the humble situation of a letter- 
carrier. He was the constant and faithful friend 
of the poet, and since his death has been most 
active and successful in his endeavcmrs to pro- 
mote the interests of tlie family. 



utmost of my powei*, and " though I love the man, 
and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as 
much as any," yet as on many occasions I must 
exercise my own judgment and discretion, I know 
not whether the warmth of my attachment to the 
poet and his productions, may not have led me to 
publish sentiments and pieces which would have 
been better withheld, and even letters and poems, 
to which an ardent admiration of their author 
may have induced me to attach a fancied value 
and interest. I can however assure the reader, 
that whatever may be thought of the following 
collection, I have neither forgotten, nor been in- 
diffirrent to the apprehensions so strongly express- 
ed by Burns, in nearly his last moments ; " that 
every scrap of his writing would be revived against 
him to the injurj of his future reputation ; that 
letters and papers, written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished 
to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about 
by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of 
his resentment would restrain them, or prevent 
the censures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidi- 
ous sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all 
their venom to blast his fame*." On the contrary, 
I must be allowed to say, that if I am at all accu- 
rate in my estimate of the character and feelings 
of this extraordinary but eccentric genius, I have 
printed no one piece of his composition that he 
would have been ashamed to acknowledge, and 
that in this publication, I have been actuated only 
by an earnest desire of preserving such of the 
writings of Burns, and such only, as do honour to 
the poet's head; or to his heart ; or that are im- 
mediately or remotely connected with the circum- 
stances of his life, or the developement of his cha- 
racter. 

To one whose admiration of the bard was less 
ardent than mine, it might have occurred that 
some of liis pieces, containing passages of great 
beauty, were rendered inadmissible merely by a 
single indelicate sentiment, or unguarded expres- 
sion, which it might be easy to alter, so as to pre- 
serve the whole. But from such a presumption as 
the substituting a word of my own in the place of 
that of the poet, (except in a very few instances 
of evident error) I have most religiously abstain- 
ed ; and have in such cases rather chosen to omit 
the passage, or even to sacrifice the piece altoge- 
ther, than attempt to remove its blemishes. If 
indeed I could ever liave entertained any doubts 
as to the sacred duty of fidelity to my author, the 
warning voice which yet seems to issue from the 
warm ashes of the poet himself, would effectually 
have deterred me. " To mangle the Mork? of 
the poor bard, whose tuneful voice is now mute 
for ever in the dark and narrow house— by Heaven, 
'twould be sacrileget i" 

My readers will however best judge how far my 
exertions are intitled to their approbation. As an 
apology for any defects of my own that may 
appear in this publication, I beg to observe, that I 
am by profession an artist, and not an author. 



* Burns's Works, p. 103. 
t Burns's Works, p. 48. 



PREFACE. 



An earnest wish to possess a scrap of the hand- gratitude of his countrymen. On this occasion. 



writing of Burns, originally led to the discovery of 
most of the papers that compose this volume. 
In the manner of laying them before the public 
I honestly declare that I have done my best ; and I 
trust I may fairly presume to hope, that the 
man who has contributed to extend the bounds of 
literature by adding another genuine volume to the 
writings of Robert Burns, has some claim on the 



I certainly feel something of that sublime and 
heart-swelling gratification, which he experiences, 
who casts another stone on the cairn of a great 
and lainented chief. 

R. H. C. 
Newman Street, 
1st Nov. 1808. 



LETTER S, &c 



No. I. 

To Mr. JOHN RICHMOND, Edinburgh. 

Mosgiel, Feb. 17, 1786. 
My dear sir, 

I have not time at present to upbraid you 
for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say 
I received yours with great pleasure. I have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your 
perusal. I have been very busy with the muses 
since I saw you, and have composed, among several 
others, The Ordination^ a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's 
being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch Drink, a 
poem ; The Cottei-''s Saturday Night ; An Ad- 
dress to the Devil, &c. I have likewise complet- 
ed my poem on the Dogs, but have not shewn it 
to the world. My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken 
in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approba- 
tion of my works. Be so good as send me Fergus- 
son, by Connel*, and I will remit you the money. 
I have no news to acquaint you with about Manch- 
line, they are just going on in the old way. I have 
some very impoitant news with respect to myself, 
not the most agi'eeable, news that I am sure you 
cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars 
another time. I am extremely happy with Sraitht; 
he is the only friend I have tiorv in Mauchline. I 
can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, 
and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly 
by Connel. If you would act your part as a 
friend, I am sure neither good nor bad fortune 
should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I 
got yours but yesterday.— I am, 
My dear sir. 
Yours, 

ROBERT BURNESSt. 



• Connel, the Mauchline carrier. 

t Mr. James Smith, then a shop-keeper in 
Mauchline. It was to this young man that Burns 
addressed one of his finest performances—" To 
J. S— — — "" beginning, 

" Dear S , the slecst, paukic thief.'''' 

He died in the West-Indies. 

X This is the only letter the Editor has met with 
in which the poet adds the termination ess to his 
name, as his fatht r and family had spelled it. 



No. II. 



To Mr. M'W- 



-lE, Writer, Ayr. 



Mosgiel, nth April, 1786. 
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that ele- 
gantly bear the impression of the good Creator, to 
say to them you give them the trouble of obliging 
a friend ; for this reason, I only tell you that I 
gratify my otvn feelings in requesting your friend- 
ly offices with respect to the inclosed, because I 
know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the 
utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no less 
than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than 
I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment which 
stamps the die with— with— with, perhaps the eter- 
nal disgrace of. 

My dear sir. 
Your humbled, 
afflicted, 
tormented, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



To Mons. James Smith, Mauchline. 

Monday Morning, Mosgiel, 1786. 
My dear sir, 

I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved 
to take the opportunity of Capt. Smith ; but I 
found the doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both 
Jamaicians, and they have deranged my plans al- 
together. They assure him that to send me from 
Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost my 
master, Charles Douglas, ui)wards of fifty pounds ; 
besides ruiming the risk of throwing myself into 
a pleuritic fever in consequence of hard travelling 
in the sun. On these accounts, be refuses send- 
ing me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Gree- 
nock the first of September, right for the place of 
my destination. The captain of her is an in- 
timate of Ml*. Gavin Hainilton's, and as good a 
fellow as heart could wish : with him I am des- 
tined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know 



342 



RELiqUES. 



not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the 
drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know 
tlieir worst, aiid am prepared to meet it.— 

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow. 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cum- 
nock. After all, Heaven bkss the sex ! I feel 
there is still happiness for me among them.— 

O woman, lovely w^oman ! Heaven designed you 
To temper man ! we had been brutes without 
you! 



No. IV. 

To INIr. DAVID BRICE. 

Mosgeil, June 12, 1786. 
Dear Brice, 

I received your message by G. Paterson, and as 
I am not very throng at pres^-nt. I just write to 
let you know that there is such a worthless, rhym- 
ing i-eprobate, as your humble servant, still in the 
land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in 
the place of hope. I have no news to tell you, 
that will give me any pleasure to mention or you 
to hear. 

* * * * 

And now for a gi'and cure ; the ship is on her 
way home that is to take me out to Jamaica ; and 
then, farewell dear old Scotland, and farewell dear 
ungrateful Jean, for never, never will I see you 
more. 

You will have heard that I am going to com- 
mence y^oe? in print ; and to-morrow my works go 
to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last fool- 
ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise 
man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, 
Dear Brice, 

Your friend and well-wisher. 



No. V. 

To GAVIN HAMILTON, esq. Mauchline. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. 
Honoured sir, 

I have paid every attention to your commands, 
but can only say, what perhaps you will have 
lieard before this reach you, that Muirkirklands 
were bought by a John Gordon, W. S., but for 
whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, &c. 
by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to be for 
Ballochmyle laird, and Adamhill and Shawood 
were bought for Oswald's folks.— This is so im- 
perfect an account, and will be so late ere it 
reach you, that, were it not to discharge my cou- 



science, I would not trouble you with it; but af- 
ter all my diligence I could make it no sooner 
nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful events, 
in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, 
along with the Black Monday, and the battle of 
Bothwel bridge.— My lord Glencairn, and the 
dean of faculty, Mr. H. Ergkine, have taken me 
under their wing ; and by all probability I shall 
soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise 
man of the world. Through my lord's influence 
it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe 
for the second edition.— My subscription bills 
come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of 
them next post.— I have met in Mr. Dalrymple, of 
Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls. 
" a friend that sticketh closer than a brother."— 
The warmth with which he interests himself in 
my affairs, is of the same enthusiastic kind which 
you, Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took no- 
tice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor 
unlucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in 
prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you but* a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
Amen 1 



No. VI. 

To Dr. M'KENZIE, Mauchline. 

Inclosing him the extempore verses on dining 
ivith lord Daer. 

Wednesday morning. 
Dear sir, 

I never spent an aftei-noon among great folks 
M'ith half that pleasure as when, in company with 
you, I had the honour of pajing my devoirs to 
that plain, honest, m orthy man, the professort. I 
would be delighted to see liim perform acts of 
kindness and friendship, though I were not the 
object ; he does it with such a grace. I think his 
character, divided into ten parts, stands thus— 
four parts Socrates— four parts Nathaniel— and 
two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little cori-ected since. They may entertain 
you a little with the htip of that partiality with 
which you are so good as to favour the perform- 
ances of 

Dear sir, 

Your very humble servant. 

* " But" is frequently used for " without ;" 
i. e. xvithuut clothing, 

t Professor Dugald Stewart. 



KELiqUES. 



34S 



No. VI 1. 



No. vin" 



JUHN BALLANTINE, esq. banker, Ayr. 



Edinburgh, IZth Dec. 1786. 

My honoured friend, 

I would not write you till I could have it in 
my power to give you some account of myself and 
my matters, which, by the bye, is often no easy 
task.— I ai-rived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, 
and have suffered ever since I came to town with 
a miserable head-ache and stomach complaint, but 
am now a good deal better. I have found a wor- 
thy warm friend in Mi-. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, 
who introduced me to lord Glencairn, a man 
whose worth and brotherly kindness to me, I shall 
remember when time shall be no more. By his 
interest it is passed in the Caledonian hunt, and 
entered in their books, that they are to take each 
a copy of the second edition, for which they are 
to pay one guinea. I have been introduced to a 
good many of the noblesse, but my avowed pa- 
trons and patronesses are, the duchess of Gordon ; 
the countess of Glencairn, with my lord, and lady 
Betty* ; the dean of faculty, sir John White- 
foord. I have likewise warm friends among the 
literati: professors Stewai't, Blair, and Mr. M'Ken- 
zie— the man of feeling. An unknown hand left 
ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with :Mr. Sib- 
bald, which I got. 1 since have discovered my 
generous unknown friend to be Patrick INIillcr, 
esq., brother to the justice clerk ; and drank a 
glass of claret with him by invitation at his own 
house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with 
Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will be- 
gin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or 
two, next post ; when I intend writing- my first 
kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and 
he is very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, 
put me in the periodical paper calkd the Loun- 
ger*, a copy of vhich I here enclose you, — I was, 
sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, 
too obscure ; now' I tremble lest I should be ruin- 
ed by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of 
polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and bet- 
ter health and more spirits may enable me to 
make it something better than this stupid matter 
of fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be, 
Good sir. 

Your ever grateful humble sen-ant. 

If any of my friends write me, my direction is, 
care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. 



* Lady Betty Cunningham. 

t The paper here alluded to, was written by 
Mr. M'Kenzie, the celebrated author of tlie Man 
of Feeling. 



To Mr. WILLIAM CHALMERS, writer, Ayr. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 
My dear friend, 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which there 
is hardly any forgiveness— ingratitude to friend- 
ship—in not writing you sooner ; but of all men 
living, I had intended to send you an ( ntertaining 
letter ; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, 
that in nodding, conceited majesty, preside over 
the dull routine of business— a heavily-solemn oath 
this !— I am, and have been, ever since I came to 
Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, 
as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St. 
John the divine, who was banished to the Isle of 
Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to 
Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and rais- 
ed the second or third persecutioii, I forget which, 
against the Christians, and after throwing the said 
apostle John, brother to the apostle James, com- 
monly called James the greater, to distinguish him 
from another James, who was, on some account or 
other, known by the name of James the less, after 
throwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from 
which he was miraculously preserved, he banished 
the poor son of Zebedee. to a desart island in the 
Archipelago, where he was gifted with the st cond 
sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen 
since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance 
not very uncommon in stor) -telling, brings me 
back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you w ill have suffered ; 
I enclose you tw o poems I have carded and spun 
since I past Glenbuck. 

One blank in the address to Edinburgh—" Fair 

B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to lord 

Monbodrio, at whose house I have had the honour 
to be more than once. 

Thej-e has not been aiiy thing nearly like her, 
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and good- 
ness, the Great Creator has formed, since Milton's 
Eve on the first day of her existence. 

My direction is— care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge-street. 



No. IX. 

To JOHN BALLANTINE, esq. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. 
My honoured friend, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in my- 
self that I am not so far gone as Willie (Jaw's 
skate, " past redemptioni" ;" for 1 have still this 

* This letter is now jiresented entire. 

t This is one of a great number of old saws 
that Burns, when a lad, had picked up from his 
mother. <»f which the good old woman had a vast 



344 



RELIQUES. 



favourable symptom of grace, tliat when my. con- 
science, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am 
leaving something undone that I ought to do, it 
teazes me eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, 
has been talking with me about a lease of some 
farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, 
vhich he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some 
life-rented embittering recollections whisper me 
that I will be happier any where than in my old 
neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; 
and tliough I dare say he means to favour me, yet 
he may give me in his opinion an advantageous 
bargain, that may ruin me, I am to take a tour 
by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to 
meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the 
most worshipful grand-master Charters, and all 
the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meet- 
ing was numerous and elegant ;, all the diffe- 
rent lodges about town were present, in all their 
pomp. The grand master, who presided with 
great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentle- 
man and mason, among other general toasts gave 

" Caledonia, and Caledonia's bard, brother B ■," 

which rung through the whole assembly with mul- 
tiplied honours and i-epeated acclaruations. As I 
had no idea such a thing would happen, I was 
downright thunder-struck, and trembling in every 
nerve made the best retui'n in my power. Just 
as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, 
so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting 
accent, " Very well, indeed ! " which set me some- 
thing to rights again. 

* * * * 

I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My 
feest good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear sir. 
Tour much indebted humble servant. 



How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the wood-bine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae aff its thorny tree. 
And my fause luver staw the rose. 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



No. XI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. 
My honoured friend, 

I will soon be with you now in guid black 
prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest. I am 
obliged, against ray omu wish, to print subscribers' 
names, so if any of my Ayr friends have subscrip- 
tion bills, they must be sent into Creech directly. 
I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engra- 
ver ; and if it can be ready in time, I will appear 
in my book looking, like other fools, to my title- 
page*. 

I liave the honour to be, 

Ever your grateful, &c. 



No. X. 



No. XII. 



TO THE SAME. 



To Mr. JAMES CANDLISH, 



While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of 
a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet 
clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and tells 
me he is going to Ajt. By heavens 1 say I to my- 
self, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of 
that sound, auld toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will 
send my last song to Mr. Ballantine.— Here it is— 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon*, 
How can ye blume sae fair; 

collection. This venerable and most respectable 
person is still living, under the sheltering roof of 
her son Gilbert, on his farm, near Dumfries. E. 
* The reader will perceive that the measure of 
this copy of the " Banks o' bonnie Doon," differs 
from that which is ali-eady published. Burns was 
obliged to adapt his words to a particular air, and 
in so doing, he lost much of the simplicity and 
beauty which the song possesses in its present 
state. E. 



Student in physic, College, Glasgow. 

Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 
My ever dear old acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter ; though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you, that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to 
be indifferent to old and once dear connexions. 
The truth is, I was determined to write a good 
letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, 
and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and 
thought of it, but for my soul I cannot : and lest 

* This portrait is engraved by Mr. Beugo,an ar- 
tist who well merits the epithet bestowed on hira 
by the poet, after a picture of Mr. Nasrayth, 
which he painted con amoi-e, and liberally pre- 
sented to Burns. This picture is of the cabinet 
size, and is now in the possession of Mr. Alex. 
Cunningham, of Edinburgh. £. 



RELiqUES. 



345 



you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just 
sit down 10 ttll you so. Don't give yourself cre- 
dit though, that the strength of your logic scares 
me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on 
that ground at all. You have shown me one 
thing which was to be demonstrated, that strong 
pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of sin- 
gularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I like- 
wise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the 
pride of despising old women's stories, ventured 
in '"thedaiing path Spinosa trod;" but experi- 
ence of the weakness, not the strength, of human 
powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed reli- 
gion. 

I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to a 
wrong cause. I am still, in the apostle Paul's 
phrase, " the old man with his oeeds," as when 
we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall 
be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you— welcome sense, wel- 
come nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity. 

My dear old friend, 

Yours. 



No. XIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

My dear friend. 

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of 
that correspondence being renewed which has 
been so long broken. At present I have tijue for 
nothing. Dissipation and business engross every 
moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest 
Scots enthusiast*, a friend of min"-, who is an en- 
graver, and has taken it into his head to publish a 
collection of all our songs set to music, of which 
the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, 
you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly 
suited to my taste. I have collected, begged, bor- 
rowed, and stolen all the songs I could meet with. 
Pompey's Ghost, words and music, I beg from you 
immediately, to go into his second number : the 
first is already published. I shall show you the 
first number when I see you in Glasgow, which 
will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to 
send me the song in a day oi- two : you cannot 
imagine how much it will ohlig-e me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 



No. XIV. 

To WILLIAM CREECH, esq. (of Edinburgh), 
London. 

Selkirk, 13th May, 1787. 
My honoured friend, 

The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly extem- 
pore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a misera- 

* Johnson, the publisher of the Scots Musical 
Museum, 



ble wet day's riding. I have been over most of 
East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk- 
shires ; and next week I begin a tour through the 
north of England. Yesterday I dined with 1 idy 
Hariot, sister to my noble patron*, Ouem Deus 
cotiservct ! I would write till I would tire you as 
much with dull prose, as I dara say by this time 
you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to 
death ; so, with a grateful farewell, 

I have the honour to be. 

Good sir, yours sincerely. 



I. 

Auld chuckle Reekie''sf sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance wcel burnish't crest. 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava. 
Her darling bird that she loes best, 

Willie's avva I 

IL 

Willie was a witty wight. 

And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he kept it tight. 

And trig an' braw ; 

But now they'll busk her like a fright. 

Willie's awa ! 

lU. 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, 
'I'he bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd. 
That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel woi-th gowd, 
Willie's awa I 

IV. 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools. 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer pwddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could Iwush them down to mools, 
V/iilie's awa ! 

V. 

The breth'ren o' the Coniineree-Chaumert 
May mourn their loss wV doolfu' clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Aniang them a' ; 

1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer 

Willie's awa ! 

VL 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour§, 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bloody raw ! 

* James, earl of Glencairn. 

t Edinburgh. 

X The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of 
which Mr. C. was secretary. 

§ Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to 
meet at Mr. C— 's house at breakfast. Burns of- 
ten met with them there, wbeu he called, and 
hence the name of levee. 

X X 



346 



RELiqUES. 



The adjutant o' a' the core 

Willie's awa ! 

VII. 

Now worthy G*****'s Latin face, 
T****rs and G*********'s modest grace ; 
M'K****e and S****t, such a brace 

As Rome neVr saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 
Willie's awa ! 

YIII. 

Poor Burns— e'en. Scotch drink canna quicken. 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie an. the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw t 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic ski Hum 

His quill may draw; 
He who could brawlie ward their bellum 
Willie's awa ! 

X. 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled 

Willie's awa ! 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

XII. 

May never wiclied fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked man bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 
He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa ! 



No. XV. 



To Mr. W. NICOL, 

Master of the High School, Edinburgh. 

Carlisle, June I, 17S7. 
Kind honi-st-hearted Willie, 

I'm sjtttn down here, after seA'en and forty 
miles ridin. e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a 
forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my 
land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour 
tliat I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyalFd 



up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, 
as teugh and birnie as a very devil wi' me*. It's 
true, she's poor's a sang-inaker, and as hard's a 
kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks the gate, 
first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a 
hen on a het gii-dle, but she's a yauld, poutherie 
Girran for a' that, and has a stomach like Willie 
Stalker's meere that wad hae disgeested tumbler- 
wheels, for she'll whip me aff her five stimparts o' 
the best aits at a down sittin, and ne'er fash her 
thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies, 
her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she 
beets to, beets to, and aje the hindmost hour the 
tightest. I could wager her price to a thi-etty pen- 
nies that, for twa or three wooks I'idin at fifty 
mile a day, the deilsticket a five gallopei's ac- 
queesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on 
her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dumbar 
to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a guid 
fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi' 
twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a sonsie, 
fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie ; the tither 
was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar'd 
winch, as blythe's a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, 
and as sweet and modest's a new blawn plumrose 
in a hazel shaw. They were baith bred to mai- 
ners by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as 
muckle smeddum and rumblgumption as the half 
o' some presby tries that you and I baith ken. 
They play'd me sic a deevil o' a shavie that I 
daur say if my harigals were turn'd out, ye wad 
see two nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o* 
a kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude 
forgie me, I gat mysel sae notouriously bitchify'd 
the day after kail-time, that I can hardly stoiter but 
and ben. 

My best resjiecks to the guidwife and a' our 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik- 
shank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to 
the fore, and the branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! 

Amen .'— 

* This mare was the poet's favourite Jenny 
Geddes. 

This old faithful servant of the poet's was nam- 
ed by him, after the old woman, who, in her zeal 
against religious innovation, threw a stool at the 
dean of Edinburgh's head, when he attempted, in 
1637, to introduce the Scottish liturgy. " On Sun- 
day, the twenty-third of July, the dean of Edin- 
burgh prepared to officiate in St. Giles's. The 
congregation continued quiet till the service be- 
gan, when an old woman, impelled by sudden in- 
dignation, started up, and exclaiming aloud, ' vil- 
lain [ dost thou say the mass at my lug ?' threw 
the stool on which she had been sitting, at the 
dean's head. A wild uproar commenced that in- 
stant. Ihe woman iiivaded the desk with execra- 
tions and outcries, and the dean disengaged him- 
self from his surplice to escape from their 
hands."— Lfljw^'j Histury of Scotland, vol. iii. p. 
122. E. 



RELIQUES. 



•347 



No. XVI. 



TO THE SAME. 



" is strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. 
Nicol, and all the- circle of our connnon friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
end of July. 



Matichline, June 18, 1787. 
My dear friend, 

I am now arrived safe in my native country, af- 
ter a very agreeable jaunt, and have the pleasure 
to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with 
your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith; 
an<i was highly pleased both with the cordial wel- 
come he gave me, and his most excellent appear- 
ance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and 
am to meet him again in August. From my view 
of the lands, and his reception of my hardship, my 
hopes in that business are rather mended ; but 
still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks— Mr. 
Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is a man 
•whom I shall ever gratefully remember; and his 
wife, Gude forgie me, I had almost broke the tenth 
commandment on her account. Simplicity, ele- 
gance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good 
humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of 
her manner and heart ; in short— but if I say one 
word more about her, I shall be directly in love 
with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very capa- 
ble of any thing generous ; but the stateliness of 
the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of 
my plebeian brethren, (who perhaps formei-ly e) ed 
me askance), since I I'eturned home, have nearly 
put me out of conceit altogether with my species. 
I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry per- 
petually about with me, in order to study the sen- 
timents— the dauntless magnanimity; the intrepid, 
unyielding independence, the despei-ate, daring, 
and noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- 
sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, 1 have just now a little 
cash ; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has 
shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in 
my zenith ; that noxiou planet, so baneful in its 
influences to the rhpning tribe, I much dread it is 
not yet beneath my horizon.— Misfortune dodges 
the path of human life : the poetic mind finds it- 
self miserably deranged in and unfit for the walks 
of business ; add to all, that thoughtless follies and 
hare-brained whims, like so many ignes J'atai^ eter- 
nally diverging from the right line of sober discre- 
tion, sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the 
idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedlwss bard, till, 
pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." 
God grant this may be an unreal picture with res- 
pect to me ; but, should it not, I have very little 
dependance on mankind. I will close my letter 
with this tribute my heart bids me pay you— the 
many ties of acquaintance and frit ndship wliich I 
have, or think I have in life, 1 have felt along the 
lines, and, d— n them ! they are almost all of them 
of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would 
not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune ; but from you, my ever dear sir, I look 
with coiifidence for the apostolic love that shall 
wait on me " through good report and bad re- 
port,"— the love which Solomon emphatically says, 



No. XVII. 

To GAVIN HAMILTON, esq. 

Stirling, 28th Aug. 1787. 
My dear sir, 

Hert- am I on my way to Inverness. I have 
rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk 
and Stirling, and am delighted with their «ppear- 
ance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c. 
but no harvest at all yet, except in one or two 
places, an old wife's ridge. — Yesterday morning I 
rode from this town up the m* andring Devon's 
banks to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks 
at Harvifcston. After breakfast, we made a party 
to go and see the famous Caudron-linn. a remark- 
able cascade in the Devon, about fiA'e miles above 
Harviestoa ; and after spending one of the most 
pleasant days I ever had in my life, I retunud to 
Stirling in the evening. They are a fttmily, sir, 
though I had not had any prior tie ; though they 
had not been the brother and sisters of a certain 
generous friend of muie, I would ne\er forget 
them. I am told you have not seen them these se- 
veral years, so you can have very little idea of 
what these young folks are now. Your brother 
is as tall as you are, but slender rather than other- 
wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
that he is getting the better of those consumptive 
symptoms, which I suppose you know were threa- 
tening him. His make, and particularly his man- 
ner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer 
face, (I put in the word still, to please Mrs. Ha- 
milton.) Good sense, modesty, and at the same 
time a just idea of that respect that man owes to 
man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are strik- 
ing features in his character ; and, wliat wiih me 
is the alpha and the omega, he has a heart might 
adorn the breast of a poet .' Grace has a good 
figure and the look of health and cheerfulness, but 
nothing else remarkable in her person. I scarcely 
ever saw so striking a likeness as is between Jier 
and your little Beennie ; the mouth and chin par- 
ticularly. She is reserved at first ; but, as we 
grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the 
native frankness of her manner, and the sterling 
sense of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot 
speak in common terms of admiration : she is not 
only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is elegant ; 
her features not regular, but they have the smile 
of sweetness and the settled complacency of good 
nature in the highest degree ; and her complexion, 
now that she has happily recovered he;- wonted 
health, is equal to Miss Bur.iet's. After the ex- 
ercise of our riding to the falls, Charlotte was ex- 
actly Dr. Donne's mistress : 

" Htr pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distiacily wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thgught." 



348 



RELIQUES. 



Her eyes aiv fascinating; ; at oucc expressive of 
good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good sir, 
to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. Such 
relations the first peer in the realm might own 
with pride : then why do you not keep up more 
con-espoiidence with these so auiiable young folks ? 
I had a thousand questions to answer about you 
all : I had to describe the little ones with the mi- 
nuteness of anatomy. They were highly delighted 
M'hen I told them that John* was so good a boy, 
and so fine a scholar, and that Williei" was going 
on still very pretty ; but I have it in commission 
to tell her from them, that beauty is a poor silly 
bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had 
left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meet- 
ing with Mrs. Chalmers, only lady M'Kenzie be- 
ing rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore tliroat 
somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My 
most respectful compliments to Mrs. Hamilton, 
Miss Kennedy, and doctor M'Kenzie. I shall pro- 
bably write him from some stage or other. 
I am ever, sir. 

Yours most gratefully. 



The following fragments are all that now exist of 
twelve or fourteen of the finest letters that 
Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the originals 
were thrown into the fire by the late Mrs. Adair 
of Hari'owgale ; the Charlotte so often mention- 
ed in this coiTespondencc, and the lady to whom 
" The Banks of the Devon" is addressed. E. 



No. XVIII. 

To Miss MARGARET CHALMERS, ("now Mrs. 
Hay, of Edinbnv^^h.) 

Sept. 26, 1787. 
I send Charlotte the first uumbtr of the songs, 
I would not wait for the second number ; I hate 
delays ii; little marks of friendsliip, as I hate dis- 
simulation in the language of the heart. I am de- 
termined to pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if 
I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air. in 
number second^. You will see a small attempt on 
a shred of paper in the book ; but, though Dr. 
Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not 
just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it 
description of some kind : llie whining cant of 
love except in real passion, and by a masterly 
hand, is to me as insufFtrable as the preaching cant 
of old father Smeaton, whig-miisister at Kiliuaurs. 
Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that 

* This is the " ivee curlie Jnhnnie" mentioned 
in Burns's dedication to Gavin Hamilton, esq. To 
this gentleman, and every brsnch of the family, 
the editor is indebted for much info4*iriation res- 
pecting the poet, ajid veiy gratefully acknow- 
ledges the kindness shown to himself. 

t Now married to the Rev. John Tod, minister 
of Mauchline. 

i. Of the Scots Musical Museum. 



farrago, are just a Mauchline * * * * _a 
senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of Tullochgorum, 
John of Badenyou, Sec. I suppose you know he 
is a clergyman. It is by far the finest compliment 
I ever got. I will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thui-sday or Friday to Dumfries to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms.— Do tell that 
to lady M'Kenzie, that she may give me credit for 
a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell with pru- 
dence." What a blessed fire-side ! How happy 
should I be to pass a winter evening under their 
venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or 
drink water-gruel with them ! What solemn, 
lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz 1 
What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons 
and daughters of indiscretion and folly ! And what 
frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side circle, 
on the uses of the poker and tongs 1 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remember- 
ed in the old way to you. I used all my eloquence, 
all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and 
heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, 
to urge her out to Harvieston, but all in vain.. 
My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on 
the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day— 
but that is a " tale of other years."— In my con- 
science, I believe that my heart has been so oft 
on fire, that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on 
the sex with something like the admiration with 
which I regard the starry sky in a frosty Decem- 
ber night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's 
workmanshii) ; I am charmed with the wild, but 
graceful eccentricity of their motions, and— wish 
them good night. I mean this with respect to a 
certain passion dont fai eu l^honjieiir d'etre un 
miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and 
Charlotte ha\e given me pleasure, permanent 
pleasure, " which the world cannot give, nor take 
away," I hope ; and which will outlast the hea- 
vens and the earth. 



IVithoiit date. 
I have been at Dumfries ; and, at one visit 
more, shall be decided about a fai'm in that coun- 
trj \ I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my bro- 
ther is an excellent farjue , and is, besides, an ex- 
ceedingly prudent, sober man, (qualities which are 
only a younger brother's fortune in our family), 
I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail 
me, to return into partnership with him, and at 
our leisui'e take another farm in the neighbour- 
hood. I assure you I look for high compliments 
from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance 
of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, 
to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compli- 
ment, now completed. The air is admii-able : tune, 
Old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, 
which aii Inverness lady sung me when I was 
there ; and I was so charmed uith it, that I beg- 
ged her to write me a set of it from her singing ; 
for it never had been set before. I am fixed that 
it shall go in Johnson's next number ; so Char- 
lotte and you need not spend your precious time 



in contradicting me. I won't say tlie poetry is 
first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well : 
and, what is not always the case with compliments 
to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just. 

(Here folloxvs the song of " The Banks of the 
Devo7i"J 



Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787, 
I have one vexatious fault to the kindly-wel- 
eome, well-filled sheet, which I owe to your and 
Charlotte's goodness— it contains too much sense, 
sentiment, and good spelling. It is Impossible that 
even you two, whom I declare to iny God, I will 
give credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining, it is iuapossible you can 
go on to correspond at that rate ; so, like those 
who, Shenstone says, retire because they have 
made a good speech, I shall after a few letters 
hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write 
wliatever comes first : what you see, what you 
read, what you hear, what y a admire, what you 
dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense : or to fill up 
a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. 
Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I 
leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall 
have any ; though, thank heaven, I have found 
at last two girls, who can be luxuriantly happy in 
their own minds and wiili one another, without 
that commonly necessary appendage to female 
bliss — a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weavy, thorny wilderness of this world— God 
knows I am ill fitted for the struggle : I glory in 
being a poet, and I want to be thought a wise 
man— I would fondly be generous, and I wish to 
be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost sub- 
ject. " Some folk hae a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm 
but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflections 
at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of 
devotion, commonly known in Carrick by the title 
of the " Wabster's grace." 

" Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we ! 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we .' 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 



RELiqUES. 349 

per and print in town ; and binoPf with all the 
elegance of his craft 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, 
I mean the merit of making it, to have you and 
Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded 
spirit. 

I inclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes to 
Charlotte. The " Ochel-hills," you shall probably 
have next week for yourself. None of your fine 
speeches ! 



Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 
I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th 
current, which is not yet cold since I read it. 
The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than 
when I wrote you last. For the first time, yester- 
day I crossed the room on crutches. It would do 
your heart good to see my hardship, not on my 
poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best 
leg with an air ! and with as much hilarity in my 
gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping 
across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the 
fragrance of the refreshed earth after the long- 
expected shower I 

* * * * 

I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I 
see any where in my path, that meagre, squalid, 
famine-faced spectre, poverty ; attended, as he al- 
ways is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering con- 
tempt ; but I have sturdily withstood his buffet- 
ings many a hard-laboured day already, and still 
my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy is moi- 
vihne. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and* 
incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well- 
mounted banditti, under the banners of imagina- 
tion, whim, capi'ice, and passion ; and the heavy- 
armed vetei-an regulars of wisdom^ prudence, and 
fore-thought, move so very, very slow, that I am 
almost in a perpetual state of warfare, and, alas t 
fi'equent defeat. There are just two creatures 
that I would envy, a horse in his wild state tra- 
versing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some- 
of the desart shores of Europe. The one has not 
a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither 
w ish nor fear. 



Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a 
bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the tints 
of my mind vjing with the livid horror preceding 
a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman 
was the cause of the first, and incomparably the 
lightest evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, 
and myself, have formed a " quadruple alliance" 
to guarantee the other. I got my fall on Satur- 
day, and' am getting slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and 
am got through the five books of iNIoscs, and half 
way iri Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I 
sent for my book-binder to-day, and ordered him 
to get me an octavo bible in sheets, the best pa- 



Edinburgh, March 1-1, 1783; 
I know, my ever dear friend, that you will be 
pleased with the news when I tell you, I have at 
last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I com- 
l)leted a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, 
for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the 
Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. 
I begin at Whitsunday to bui!d a house, drive 
lime, &c., and heaven be my help! for it will 
take a strong effort to bring my mind into the 
routine of business. I have discharged all the ar- 
my of my fonncr pursuits, fancies, and pleasures ; 
a motley host ! and have literally and strictly re- 
tained only the idea of a few fi-iends, which I have 
incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. 
Johnson's observation, " ^^'here much is attempt- 



35id 



RELIQUES. 



ed, something iPfioue." Firmness both in suffer- 
ance and exertion, is a character I would wish to 
be thought to possess ; and have always despised 
the whining yelp of complaint, and tlie cowardly, 
feeble resolve. 



presents lue with but a melancholy path : but— 
my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle 
on. 

Edinburgh^ Sunday. 
To-morrow, my dear madam, I leave Edinburgh. 



Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this winter, 
and begged me to remember her to you the fii-st 
time I wrote you. Surely woman, amiable wo- 
man, is often made in vain ! Too delicately form- 
ed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too no- 
ble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for 
the rage of pleasure : formed indeed for, and 
highly susceptible of enjojment and rapture ; but 
that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy 
of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wicked- 
ness of an animal at all times comparatively un- 
feeling, and often brutal. 



Mauchlhie, 1th April, 1788. 

I am indebted to you and Miss Nimmo lor let- 
ting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange ! how apt 
we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of 
one another ! Even I, who pique myself on my 
skill in marking characters ; because I am too 
proud of my character as a man, to be dazzled in 
my judgment /w glaring wealth ; and too proud 
of my situation as a poor man to be biassed 
against squalid poverty ; I was unacquainted 
with Miss K's very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in vion 
grand biit, the sober science of life. I have lately 
made some sacrifices, for which, were I viva voce 
with you to paint the situation and recount the 
circumstances, yon would applaud me. 



No date. 

Nov for that wayward, unfortunate thing, my- 
self. I have broke measures with * * * and 
last week I wrote him a fi'osty, keen letter. He 
replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me 
upon his honour, that I should have the' account 
on Monday; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have 
not heard a word from him. God have mercy on 
me ! a poor, d-mned, incautious, duped, unfortu- 
nate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim of i-e- 
bellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, ago- 
nizing sensibility, and bedlam passions .' 

" / iviah that I were dead, but Pm 710 like to 
die .'" I had lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in th' 
imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank my 
stars I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd than 
\i\n-x.'''—Interrttption. 

1 have this moment got a hint * * * 

* * * * * I fear I am something 

like— undone— but I hope for the best. Come, 
stubborn pride and unshrinking i-esolution I ac- 
company me through this, to me, misei-able world ! 
You must not desert me ] Your friendship I think 
I can count on, though I sljould date my letters 
from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all 
my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my 
forlorn hope. Seriously tlrough, life at present 



I have altered all my plans of futtire life. A farm 
that I could live in, I could not find ; and, indeed, 
after the iiecessary support my brother and the 
rest of the family required, I could not venture 
on fai-ming in that style suitable to my feelings. 
You will condemn me for the next step I have 
taken. I have entered into the excise. I stay 
in the west about three weeks, and then return to 
Edinburgh for six weeks instructions ; afterwards, 
for I get employ instantly, I go oii il plait h Dieu, 
— et nion roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, 
after mature delibei'ation. The question is not 
at what door of fortune's palace shall we enter in ; 
but what doors does she open to us ? I was not 
likely to get any thing to do. I wanted iin bUt, 
which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hanging on, or mortifying solici- 
taiion ; it is inimediate bread, and though poor in 
comparison of the last eighteen months of my ex- 
istence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preced- 
ing life : besides, the commissioners ai-e some of 
them my acquaintances, and all of thera my firm 
friends. 



No. XIX. 



To Miss M- 



-N. 



Saturday noon. No, 2, St, Jameses Sqr. 
Neivtoivn, Edinburgh, 

Here have I sat, my dear madam, in the stony 
attitude of perplexed study, for fifteen vexatious 
minutes, mj head askew, bending over the intend- 
ed card ; ray fixed eye insensible to the very light 
of day poured around ; my pendulous goose-fea- 
ther, loaded with ink, hanging over the future 
letter ; all for the important purpose of writing a 
complimentary card to accompany your trinket. 

Compliments is such a miserable Greenland ex- 
pression ; lies at such a chilly polar distance from 
the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, 
for the very soul of me, use it to any person for 
whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem, 
every one must have for you who know s you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling for you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about 
seven, or after, I shall wait on you, for your fare- 
well commands. 

The hinge of your box, I put into the hands of 
the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, like- 
wise, went under review ; but deliberative wisdom 
thought it would too much endanger the whole 
fabric. 

I am, dear madam. 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 

Your viivy humble servant. 



RELIQUES. 



351 



No. XX. 



To Mr. ROBERT AINSLIE, Edinburgh. 

Edinburgh, Sunday morning, 
Nov. 23, 1787. 

I beg, my dear sir, you would not make any 
appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's to-night. 
On looking over my engagements, constitution, 
pi-esent state of my health, some little vexatious 
soul concerns, fee, I find I can't sup abroad to- 
night. 

I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if you have 
a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that I find the idea of your friendship almost ne- 
cessary to my existence.— You assume a proper 
length of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, 
and you laugli fully up to my highest wishes at 
my good things.— I don't know upon the whole, if 
you are one of the first fellows in God's world, 
but you are so to me. I tell you this just now in 
the conviction that some inequalities in my tem- 
per and manner may, perhaps, sometimes make 
you suspect that I am not so warmly as I ought 
to be 

Your friend. 



No. XXI. 



certain, leave town in a week for AjTshire, and 
fi-om that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are 
slcndtr. I have iny direction in town, so any 
thing, wherever I am, will reach me. 

I saw yours to : it is not too severe, nor 

did lie take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipt 
spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christ- 
mas days. Mr. has <^ive>n him the invitation, 

and he is determined to accept of it. O selfish- 
ness ! he owns, in his sober moments, that from 
his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances 
in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his 
father's dispositiem,— the whole affair is chimeri- 
cal— jet hf ivill gratify an idle (wnrhant at the 
ejiormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruining the 
peace of the very woman for whom he pi'ofesses 
the generous passion of love ! He is a gentleman 
in his mind and manners. Tant pis .'—He is a vo- 
latile school-boy : the heir of a man's fortune, 
who well knows the value of two times two ! 

Perdition seize them anel their fortunes, before 
they should make the amiable, the lovely - 

the derided object of their purse-proud contempt. 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's re- 
covery, because I really thought all was over with 
her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her. 

" As I cam in by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comin.'-' 



To Miss CHALMERS. 



No. XXII. 



Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 
My dear madam, 

I just now have read yours. The poetic com- 
pliments I pay cannot be misunilerstood. They 
are neither of them so particular as to point rjou 
out to the world at large ; and the circle of your 
acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, 
I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, 
on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with 
you ? I will ; so look to it. Personal attrac- 
tions, madam, you have much above par j wit, un- 
derstanding, and worth you jjossess in the first 
class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you 
these truths, but let me hear no moi-e of your 
sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I 
know what they will say of my poems ; by se- 
cond sight I suppose ; for I am seldom out in my 
conjectures ; and you may believe me, my dear 
madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you 
by an ill-judged compliment. I wish to show to 
the world, the odds between a poet's friends and 
those of simple prosemen. More for your infor- 
mation, both the pieces go in. One of them, 
" Where braving all the winter's harms," already 
set— the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
carny ; the other is to be set to an old Highland 
air in Daniel Dow's " Collection of ancient Scots 
music ;" the name is Ha a Chaillich air mo Dhcidh. 
My treacherous memory has forgot every circum- 
stance about Les Incas, only I think you men- 
tioned them as being in C 's possession. I 

shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of 
•' Somebody'- will come too late— as I shall, for 



To Mr. MORISON*, wright, Mauchline. 

Ellisland, Jan. 22, 1788. 
My dear sir. 

Necessity obliges me to go into my new house, 
even before it be plaistered. I will inhabit the 
one end until the other is finished. About three 
weeks moi-e, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
beyond which I cannot stay in lliis present house. 
If ever you wished to deserve tlie blessing of him 
that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in a 
situation that a little kindness w ould have rescued 
you from many evils ; if ever you hope to find 
rest in future states of untried being ;— get these 
matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in 
the beginning of next week for the clock. My 
compliments to Mrs. Morison. 

I am, after all my tiibulation, 
Dear sir, 

Yours. 

No. XXIIL 

To Mr. JAMES SMITH, Avon Printficld, Lin- 
lithgow. 

Manrhline, April 28. 1788. 
Beware of your Strasburgh, my good sir ! Look 
on this as tlie opening of a correspondence like the 
opening of a twenty-four gun battery .' • 

* This article refers to chairs, and other articles 
of fuvnitnre which the poet liad ordered. 



352 



RELISIUES. 



There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous ideas, 
(that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I 
know many, wlio, in tlie animal muster, pass for 
men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea 
on any given subject, and by far the greatest part 
of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast 
of ideas, 1.25—1.5—1.75, or some such fractional 
matter) ; so to let you a little into the secrets of 
my pericranium, there is, you must know, a cer- 
tain clean-limbed handsome, bewitching young 
hussj of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately 
and privately given a matriinonial title to my 
corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it," 



he a very kind one. 1 have the pleasure to teli 
you that I have been extremely fortunate in all 
my buyings and bargainings hitherto; Mrs. Burns 
not excepted ; which title I now avow to the 
world. I am truly pleased with this last affair : 
it has indeed added to my anxieties for futurity, 
but it has given a stability to my mind and reso- 
lutions, unknown before ; and the poor girl has 
the most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to me, 
and has nM a wish but to gratify my every idea of 
her deportment*. 

I am interrupted. 

Farewell ! my dear sir. 



Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage 
ill luck ; and as my girl has been doubly kinder 
to me than even the best of women usually are to 
their partners of our sex, in similar circumstances, 
I reckon on twelve times a brace of children 
against I celebrate my twelfth wedding day : 
these tventy-four will give me twenty-four gos- 
sippings, twenty-four christenings, (I mean one 
equal to two,) and I hope, by the blessing of the 
God of my fathers, to make them twenty-four du- 
tiful children to their parents, twenty-four useful 
members of society, and twenty-four approven ser- 
vants of their God J * * * * " Light's 
heartsome," quo' the wife, when she was stealing 
sheep. You see what a lamp I have hung up to 
lighten your paths, when you are idle enough to 
explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. 
'Tis now as plain as a pike-staiT, why a twenty- 
four gun battery was a metaphor I could readily 
t-mploy. 

Now for business.— I intend to present Mrs. 
Bums with a printed shawl, an article of which I 
dare say you have variety: 'tis my first present to 
her since I have irrevocably called her mine, and 
I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the 
said first present from an old and much valued 
friend of her's and mine, a trusty Trojan, on 
whose friendship I count myself possessed of a 
life-rent lease. 

* * * * 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of sorrows ;" 
I'll write you till your eyes ache with reading non- 
sense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) 
begs her best compliments to you. 



To Mr. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchline, May 26, 1788. 
My dear friend, 

I am two kind letters in your debt, but 1 have 
been from home, and horridly busy buying and 
preparing for my farming business ; over and 
above the plague of my excise instructions, which 
this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many fu- 
ture years correspondence between us, 'tis foolish 
to talk of excusing dull epistles : a dull letter may 



TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, June 14, 1788. 

Tliis is now the third day, my dearest sir. that 
I have sojourned in these regions ; and, during 
these three days, you have occupied more of my 
thoughts than in three weeks preceding : in Ayr- 
shire I have several variations of friendship's 
compass, here it points invariably to the pole. — 
My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares 
and anxieties, but I hate the language of com- 
plaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says weH— • 
" Why should a living man complain ?" 

I have lately been much mortified with contem- 
plating an unlucky imperfection in the very fram- 
ing and construction of my soul ; namely, a blun- 
dering inaccuracy of her olfactoi*y organs in hit- 
ting the scent of craft or design in my fellow 
creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my 
ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in con- 
sequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of con- 
scious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some 
way or other, an imperfection in the mental 
sight ; or, metaphor apart, some modification of 

* A passage has been omitted in a letter to Mrs. 
Dunlop. (See General Correspondence, No. LIII.) 
This passage places Mrs. Burns in so interesting 
a point of view, that it must be preserved. 

" To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stran- 
ger : my preservative from the first is a most 
thorough consciousness of her sentiments of ho- 
nour, and her attachment to me; my antidote 
against the last, is my long and deep-rooted affec- 
tion for her. 

" In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and 
activity to execute, she is eminently mistress : and, 
during my absence in Nithsdale, she is regularly 
and constantly apprentice to my mother and sis- 
ters in their daii-y and other rural business. 

" The Muses must not be offended when I tell 
them, the concerns of my wife and family will, in 
my mind, always take the pas ; but I assure them, 
their ladyships will ever come next in place. 

" You are right that a bachelor state would have 
insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you 
will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoy- 
ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confi- 
dence in approaching my God, would seldom have 
have been of the number * » * *." 



RELIQUES. 



(1 Illness. Ill two or three small instances lately, I 
h;i\e becii most slianiefully out. 

I have all along:, hitherto, in the warfare of life, 
been hred to arms among the light-horse— the pi- 
quet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars and Hiph- 
landcis of the braiti ; but I am firmly resolved to 
sell out of these giddy battalions, who have no 
ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege, 
l)ut storming the town. Cost what it will, 1 am de- 
termined to buy in among the grave squadrons of 
heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of 
plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great sluclies 
of your profession ? You said something about re- 
ligion in your last. I don't exactlj' remember what 
it was, as the letter is in Ayrshire : bdt I th.ought 
it not only prettily said, but nobly thouglit. You 
vill make a noble fellow if ojice you were marri- 
ed. I make no reseiTation of your being rvcll- 
married : you have so much sense, and knowledge 
of human nature, that though you may not rea- 
lize, perhaps, the ideas of romance, yet you m ill 
never be ill-married. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- 
ation respecting provision for a family of children, 
I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have 
taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 1 look 
to the excise scheme as a certainty of mainte- 
nance ; a maintenance, luxur) to what either Mrs. 
Burns or I were born to. 

Adieu. 



TO THE SAME. 

EUhlancl, June 30, 1788. 
My dear sir, 

I just now received your brief epistle ; and, to 
take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, 
taken a long slieet of writing paper, and have be- 
gun at the top of the page, intending to scribble 
on the very last corner. 

I am vext at that affair of the * * * but dare 
not enlarge on the subject until you send me your 
direction, as I suppose that will be altered o;i 
your late master and friend's death. I am con- 
cerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I fear it 
may be to your disadvantage in any respect— for 
aji old man's dying, except he have been a very 
benevolent character, or in some particular situa- 
tion of life, that the welfare of the poor or the 
helpless depended on him, I think it an event of 
the most trifling moment to the world. Man is 
naturally a kind benevolent animal, but he is 
dropt into such a needy situation here in this vex- 
atious world, and has such a whoreson, hungiy, 
growling, multipl.ving pack of necessities, appe- 
tites, passions, and desires about him, ready to de- 
vour him for want of other food ; that in fact he 
must lay aside his cares for others, that lie may 
look jiroperly to himself*. You have been impos- 
ed upon in paying Mr. M for the profile of a 

* A similar thought occurs in a letter to Mr. 
Hill— See General Correspondence, No. XCV. 



Mr. H. I did not mention it in my letter to you, 

nor did I ever give Mr, M any such order. 1 

have no objection to lose the money, but I will 
nof have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carritn- to pay you, but as I men- 
tioned only lis. to him, I will rather enclose you 
a guinea note. I have it not indeed to spare here, 
as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this 
place ; but i)i a day or two I return to Mauchline, 
aird thin-e I h:ive the bank-notes through the; house, 
like salt permits. 

There is a great d(gree of folly in talking unne- 
cessarily of one's private affairs. I have just now 
been interrui)ted by one of my new neiglibours, 
who has made himself ahsoluieiy contemptible in 
my eyes, by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know 
it has been a fault of my own too ; but, from this 
moment, I abjure it, as I would the service of 
hell! Your poets, spendtluifts, and other fools of 
that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes 
on prudence, but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying 
in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money- 
matters, is much more pardonable than imprudence 
respecting character. I have no objection to pre- 
fer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you have not 
met, and often met, with the same little disinge- 
nuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, 
and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the 
hackneyed" vietiius of profusion, as in the unfeel- 
ing children of pai-simony. I have every possible 
reverence for the much-ialked-of world beyond 
the grave, and I wish that which piety believes 
and virtue deserves, maj' be all matter of fact. — 
But in things belonging to. and terminating in 
this present scene of existence, man has serious 
and interesting business on hand. Whether a man 
shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguish- 
ed elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt 
in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether In- 
shall wanton under tlie tropic of plent) , at least 
enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy 
convenience, or starve in the arctic cii-cle of drea- 
ry poverty ; whether he sliall rise in tlie manly 
consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink be- 
neath a galling load of regret and remorse— these 
are alternatives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasionally 
to sermoni/.e too ; I wish you would, in charity, 
fnvour iiR- with a sluet full in your own way, I 
SKimire the clote of a letter lord Bolingbroke writes 
dean Swift: *' Adieu, dear Swift! with all thy 
faults I love thee entirely : make an effort to lovt» 
me witli all mine !" Huijible servant, and all that 
trumpery, is imw such a prostituted business, that 
honest friendship, i:i her sincere way, must \\a\c 
recotirse to In r primitive, simple— farewell! 



No. xxvir. 

To Mr. GEORGE LOCKHART, Merchai)', 
Glasgow. 

Maucltlinc. July 18, 1789. 
:My dear sir, 

I am just going for Nithsdale, else I would cer- 
tainly have transiribed some of my rhyming ihin'>-s 



354 



RELIQUES. 



for you. The miss Bailies I have seen in Edin- 
burgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God 
Almighty! Who would not praise Thee for these 
Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the sons of men !" 
It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I 
declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. 
Ba'ilie's, 1 was almost in the predicament of the 
children of Israel, when they could not look on 
Moses's face for the glory that shone in it, when 
he descended from Mount Sinai*. 

I did once write a poetic address from the falls 
of Bruar to his grace of Athole, when I was in the 
Highlands. When you return to Scotland let me 
know, and I will send such of my pieces as please 
myself best. 

I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr- Purden. I am in truth, 
but at present in haste, 

Yours, sincerely. 



No. XXVIII. 
To Mr. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh. 

Ellisland, Sept. 9, 1788. 
My dear sir. 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number of 
the graces whose letters wonld have given me so 
much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which 
only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest ; 
but for all that most pleasurable part of life call- 
ed social communication, I am here at the very el- 
bow of existence. The only things that are to be 
found in this countrj-, in any degree of perfection, 
are stupidity and canting. Prose, they only know 
in graces, prayers. &c., and the value of these 
they estimate as they do their plaiding webs— by 
the ell ! As for the muses, they have as much an 
idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old ca- 
pricious, but good-natured hussy of a muse- 
By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on. 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow trees upon. 

I am generally about half my time in AjTshire 
with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid in- 
tervals, throw my horny fist across my be-cobweb- 
bcd lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife 
throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning 
wheel. 

I will send you " The Fortunate Shepherdess" 
as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep 
it with other precious treasure. I shall send it by 

* One of Burns's remarks, when he first came 
to Edinburgh, was, that between the men of rus- 
tic life and the polite world he observed little dif- 
ference—that in the former, though unpolished by 
fashion, and unenlightened by science, he had 
found much observation and much intelligence — 
but a refined and accomplished woman Mas a be- 
ing almost new to him, and of which he had form- 
ed but a very inadequate idea. E. 



a careful hand, as I would not for any thing it 
should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve 
you from any benevolence, or other grave Chris- 
tian virtue ; 'tis purely a selfish gratification of 
my own feelings whenever I think of you. 



If your better functiens would give you leisuie 
to write me, I should be extremely happy ; that 
is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a regu- 
lar correspondence. I hate the idea of being ob- 
liged to write a letter. I sometimes write a friend 
twice a week, at other times once a quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in 
making the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 
'twas a glorious idea. 

Gould you conveniently do me one thing— 
Whenever you finish any head, I could like to have 
a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long story 
about your fine genius ; but, as what every body 
knows cannot have escaped you, I shall not say 
one syllable about it. 



No. XXIX. 

To Miss CHALMERS, Edmburgh. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 

Where are you ? and how are you ? and is lady 

M'Kenzie recovering her health ? for I have had 

but one solitary letter from you. I will not think 

yeu have forgotten me, madam ; and for my part— 

" When thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 
Skill part from my right hand !" 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul care- 
less as that sea." I do not make my progress 
among mankind, as a bowl does among its fellows 
—rolling through the crowd without bearing away 
any mark or impression, except where they hit in 
hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by 
bad weather; and as you and your sister once did 
me the honour of interesting yourselves much & 
regard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation 
of your goodness.— I can truly say that, all the 
exterior of life apart, I never saw two, whose es- 
teem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul— I 
will not say, more, but so much, as lady M'Kenzie 
and miss Chalmers. When I think of you— hearts 
the best, minds the noblest, of human kind— un- 
fortunate, even in the shades of life— when I 
think I have met with you, and have lived more 
of real life with you in eight days, than I can do 
with almost any body I meet with in eight years— 
when I think on the improbability of meeting you 
in this woi-ld again— I could sit down and cry like 
a child i— If ever you honoured me with a place in 
your esteem, I trust I can now plead more de- 
sert.— I am secure against that crushing griji of 
iron poverty, which, alas .' is less or more fatal to 
the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest 
souls ; and a late, important step in my life has 



RE^^IQUES. 



355 



kindly takeiv me out of tlie way of tliose ungrato- 
fiil iniquities, which, however overlooked in fa- 
sliionable license, or varnished in fashionable 
phrase, are indeed but li^^hter and deeper shades 
of villainy. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I mar- 
ried " my Jean." This was not in consequence 
of the attachment of romance perhaps ; but I had 
a long' and much-loved fellow creature's hap])iness 
or misery in my determination, and I durst not 
trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, 
modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not 
sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse 
of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the 
handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the sound- 
est constitution, and the kindest heart in the coun- 
ty. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, 
that I am le plus bet esprit, et le plus honnete homme 
in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her 
life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together on either prose or 
verse.— I must except also from this last, a certain 
late publication of Scots poems, which she has pe- 
rused very devoutly ; and all the ballads in the 
country, as she has (O the partial lover ! you will 
cry) the finest " wood-note wild" I ever heard.— I am 
the more particular in this lady's character, as I 
kiiow she will henceforth have tlie honour of a 
share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauch- 
line, as I am building my house ; for this hovel 
that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervi- 
ous to e>ery blast that blows, and every shower 
that falls ; and I am only preserved from being 
chilled to death, by being suffocated with smoke. 
I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was 
taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be 
a saving bargain. Yoii will be pleased to hear 
that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every 
day after my reaj>ers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at any 
time going down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to 
misery, I have taken my excise instructions, and 
have my commission in my pocket for any emer- 
gency of fortune. If I could set all before your 
view, whatever disrespect you, in commoji with 
the world, have for this business, I know you 
would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear madam, for this 
egotistic detail : I know you and your sister will 
be interested in every circumstance of it. What 
signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the 
ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fellow par- 
takers of the same nature fear the same God, have 
the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness 
of soul, the same detestation at every thing disho- 
nest, and the same scorn at every thing unworthy— 
if they are not in the dependance of absolute beg- 
gary, in the name of common sense are they not 
equals .'' And if the bias, the instinctive bias of 
their souls run the same way, why may they not 
be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending 
you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
" When one is confined idle within doors by bad 
■.veather, the best antidote against ennui is, to read 



the letters of, or write to one's friends ;" in that 
case, then, if the weather continues thus, I may 
scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately, to wit, since harvest began, wrote 
a poem, not in imitation, but in the manner of 
Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short essay, 
just to try the strength of my nuise's pinion in 
that way. I will send you a copy of it, when once 
I ha\e heard from you. 1 have likewise been laj- 
ing the foundation of some pretty large jjoelie 
works : how the superstructure will come on I 
leave to that great maker and marrcr of projects 
— Time. Johnson's collection of Scots songs is 
going on in the third volume ; and of consequence 
finds me a consumpt for a great deal of idle me- 
tre. — One of the most tolerable things I have dojie 
in that Nvay, is, two stanzas that I juade to an air, 
a musical gentleman* of my acquaintance com- 
posed for the anniversary of his wedding-day, 
which happens on the seventh of November. Take 
it as follows : 

The day returns— my bosom burns 
The blissful day we t\\ a did nieet, &.c. 
See p. 302. 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I 
should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this 
goes away, 1 shall make it another letter ; and 
then you may allow your patience a week's res- 
pite between the two. I have not room for more 
than the old, kind, heavty farewell J 



To make some amends, iiies cJicres mesdames, 
for dragging you on to this second sheet ; and to 
relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
and uneorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you 
some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have 
these eight or ten months done very little that 
way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of 
Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbour- 
hood, who is so good as to give me a key at plea- 
sure, I wrote as follows ; supposing myself the se- 
questered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely 
mansion. 

Lines ivritten in Friar''s Carse Hcrniitnge\', 
See p. 281. 



No. XXX. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP, of Dunlop. 

Mauchline, 27th Sept. 1788. 
I have received twins, dear madam, more than 
once; but scarcely ever with more pleasure than 

* Capt. Kiddel of Glenriddel. 

1" The poetic tempei-ament is ever predisposed 
to sensations of the " horrible and awful." Burns, 
in returning from his visits at Glenriddel to his 
farm at Ellisland, had to pass through a little wild 
wood in which stood the hermitage. When the 
night was dark and dreary it was his custom gene- 
rally to solicit an additional parting glass to foriify 



356 



RELiqUEb. 



wlien I received yours of the 12iii instant. To 
make jnjscif understood : I had wrote to Mr. 
Graham, inclosing' my poem addressed to him, and 
the same post which favoured me witii yours, 
brought me an answer from him. It was dated 
tlie very day he had receivi'd mine ; and I am 
quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or 
kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are 
truly the work of a friend. They are not the 
blasting- deprLdatiotis of a canker-toothed, cater- 
pillar critic ; nor are they the fair statement of 
cold impartiality, balancing with unfeeling exac- 
titude, the pro and con of an author's merits ; thej- 
are the judicious observations of animated friend- 
ship, selecting the beauties of the piece*. I have 
just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a 
fortnight. I was on horseback this morning by 
three o'clock : for between my wife and my farm 
is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the 
dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as follows : 

" ]\Irs. F of C 's lamentation for the 

deatli of her son ; an uncommonly promising 
youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age." 

Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mother's 
lament for the loss of her Son.'' 

Seep. 309. 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, but 
you see I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your 

his spirits and keep up his courage. This was re- 
lated by a lady, a near relation of capt. Riddel's, 
who had fi-equent opportunities of seeing this sa- 
lutary practice exemplified. E. 

* From a letter which is printed in Dr, Cur- 
vie's collection, it appears that Burns entertained 
no great respect for what may be styled technical 
criticism. He loved the man who judged of poe- 
tical compositions from the heart — but looked with 
an evil eye upon those who decided by the cold de- 
cisions of the head. This is evinced by the follow- 
ing anecdote. 

At a private breakfast in a literary cii'cle at 
Edinburgh, to which he was invited, the conversa- 
tion turned on the poetical merit and pathos of 
Gray's Elegy, a poem of which he was enthusias- 
tically fond. A clergyman pi-esent, remarkable 
for his love of paradox and for his eccenti-ic no- 
tions on every subject, distinguished himself by an 
injudicious and ill-timed attack on this exquisite 
poem, which Burns, with a generotis warmth for 
the reputation of Gray, manfully defended. As 
this gentleman's remarks w ere rather general than 
specific, Buras urged hiju to bring forward the 
passages which lie thought exceptionable. He 
made several attempts to quote the poem, but al- 
ways in a blundering inaccurate manner. Burns 
bore all this for a consider.able time with his usual 
good nature and forbearance ; till, at length, goad- 
ed by the fastidious criticisms and wretched qulb- 
blings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with 
an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with 
great vehemence of gesticulation, he thus ad- 
dressed the old critic. " Sir,— I now perceive a 
man may be an excellent judge of poetry f}i/ 

square and rule, and after al},— be a d d block- 

lu^ad ;*' E. 



impromptus give me double pleasure ; what fails 
from your pen. can neither be unentertainiug in 
itself, nor indifferent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just ; but I cannot 
please myself in an emendation. 

AVhat a life of solicitude is the life of a parent ! 
You interested me much in your young couple. 

I would not take my folio paper for this epis- 
tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with my 
dirty long journey, that I was afraid to drawl into 
the essence of dulness with any thing longer than 
a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of 
this jnorning's manufacture. 

I will pay the saijienti potent George most cheer- 
fully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayrshire. 



No. XXXI. 

To Mr. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver, 
Edinburgh. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 178S. 
My dear sir, 

I have sent you two more songs. — If you have 
got any tunes, or any thing to correct, please send 
them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear fi-iend, that you will 
very i)rol}ably have four volumes. Perhaps you 
may not find your account lucratively, in this bu- 
siness ; but jou are a patriot for the music of your 
country ; and I am certain, postei-ity will look on 
themselves as highly indebted to your public spi- 
rit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly ; 
and your name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming pi-eface for your third 
volume. I see, every day, new musical publica- 
tions advertised ; but what are they ? Gaudy, 
hunted butterflies of a day, and then vanish for 
ever : but your work will outlive the momentary 
neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of 
time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a 
wild-goose chase of amoroxis devotion ? Let me 
know a few of her qualities, such as, whether she 
be rather black, or fair ; plump, or thin ; short, 
or tall, &c. •, and chuse your air, and I shall task 
my muse to celebrate hei-. 



No. XXXII. 

To Dr. BLACKLOCK. 

Maitchline, Nov. 15, 1758. 
Rev. and dear sir. 

As I hear nothing of your motions but that you 
are, or were, out of town, I do not know where 
this may find you, or whether it will find you at 
all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the 
land of matrimony, in June ; but either it had not 
found 5'ou, or, what I dread more, it found you or 
Mi"s. Blacklock in too pi'ecai'ious a state of health 
and si)irits, to take notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson, 
since I had the pleasui-e of seeing you ; and I have 
finished one piece, in the way of Pope's Moral 



RELIQUES. 



35r 



K/Jistles ; but from your silence, I liave every 
thing to fear, so I have only sent you two melan- 
choly things, which I tremble lest they should too 
well suit tlie tone of your present feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
Nithsdale : till then, my direction is at this place ; 
after that period, it will be at Ellisland, near Dum- 
fries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but 
half a line, to let me know how you are, and where 
you are.— Can I be inditferent to the fate of a 
)nan, to whom I owe so much ? A man ^^ horn I 
not only esteem, but venerate*. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and miss Johnson, 
if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you, that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I took 
respecting " my Jean."— Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as ajiothegms in life. 
A wife's head is immaterial, compared with her 
heart — and — " Viitue's (for wisdom what poet pre- 
tends to it) ways are ways of pleasantness, and her 
paths are peace." 

Adieu ! 
* * * * 

Here follow '' The mother's lament for the loss 
nf her son,'''' and the song beginning " The lazy 
mist haiii;s frotn the broiv of the hill.'''' 

See p. 302. 



No. XXXIII. 

To Mr. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

FJlislaiHl, Jan. 6, 1789. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, my 
dear sir ! May you be comparatively happy up 

* Gratefully alluding to the doctoi-'s introduc- 
tion of him to the literary circles of Edinburgh.— 
•■ Ther*? was, perhaps, never one among mankind,"' 
says Heron, in a spirited memoir of our bard, in- 
serted in the Edinbui-gh Magazine, " whom you 
might more truly have called an angel upoji 
earth, than Dr. Blacklock : he was guileless and 
innocent as a child, yet endov^ed with manly saga- 
city and penetration; his heai't was a perpetual 
spring of overflowing benignity; his feelings 
were all tremblingly alive to the sense of the sub- 
lime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the vir- 
tuous.— Poetry was to him the dear solace of per- 
petual blindness ; cheerfulness, even to gaiety, 
was, notwithstanding that iri'emediable misfor- 
tune, long the predominant colour of his mind. 
In his latter years, when the gloom might other- 
wise have thickened around him, hope, faich, de- 
votion the most fervent and sublime, exalted his 
mind to Heaven, and made him maintain his wont- 
ed cheerfulness in the expectation of a speedy 
dissolution." — 

In thte beginning of the winter of 1786-87, 
Burns came to Edinburgh : by Dr. B. he was re- 
ceived with the most flattering kindness, and was 
earnestly introduced to every person of taste and 
generosity among the good old man's friends. It 



to your comparative worth among the sons of men ; 
which wish wouhl, I am sure, make you one ol" 
the most blest of the liuman race. 

I do not know if passing a "writer to the sig- 
net" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere busi- 
ness of friends and interest. However it be, let 
me quote you my two favourite passages, which 
though I have repeated them ten thousand times, 
still they rouse my manhood and steel my resolu- 
tion like inspiration. 



On Reason build resolve, 



That column of true majesty in maji. 

7'oung. 

Heai", Alfred, hero of the state, 

Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 

The triumph of the truly great 

Is never, never to despair ] 

Is never to despair ! 

Masque of Alfred. 

I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in com- 
mon with hundreds.— But who are they? Men, 
like yourself, and of that aggregate body, your 
compeers, seven tenths of them come short of 
your advantages natural and accidental ; wiiile 
two of those that remain either neglect their 
parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or mis- 
si>end their strength, like a bull goring a bramble 
bush. 

But to change ther theme: I am still catering 
for Johnson's publication ; and among others, I 
have brushed up the following old favourite song 
a little, with a view to your worship. I have only 
altered a word here and tliere ; but if you like the 
humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or two to 
add to it. 



No. XXXIV. 

To Mr. JAMES HAMILTON, Grocer, Glasgow, 

Ellislau'l, May 26, 1789. 
Dear sir, 

I send you by John Glover, carrier, the above 
account for Mr. Tm'nbull, as I suppose you know 
his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear sir, a word of sym- 
pathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a tender 
string, and I know not how to touch it. It is easy 
to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments on the 
subject that would give great satisfaction to— a 
breast quite at ease ; but as one observes, who was 
very seld(Hn mistaken in the theory of life, " The 
heai;t knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger in- 
termeddleth not therewith." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I have 
experienced in life, I ever laid this down as my 
foundation of comfort— T/in^ he rvho has lived the 

was little Blacklock had in his power to do for a 
brother poet— but that little he did with a fond 
alacrity, and with a modest grate. E. 






RELlQUEb. 



life of an honat man, has by no means lived in 
vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare, and future 
success, 

I am, my dear sir, 

Sincerely yours. 



No. XXXV. 

To WILLIAM CREECH, Esq. 

Ellisland, May 30, 1789. 
Sir, 

I had intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an omnipotent toothach so engross all my 
inner man, as to put it out of my power even to 
write nonsense. — However, as in duty bound, I aj)- 
proach my bookseller with an offering in my hand 
—a few poetic clinches and a song.— To expect 
any other offering from the rhyming tribe, would 
be to know them much less than you do. I do not 
pretend that there is much merit in these mor- 
ceaux, but I have two reasons for sending them : 
primo, they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison 
with my present feelings, while fifty troops of in- 
fernal spirits are driving jjost from ear to ear 
along my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they are so 
short, that you cannot leave oft" in the middle, and 
so hurt ray pride in the idea that you found any 
work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not only 
beg of you, but conjure you — by all your %vishes 
and by all your hopes, that the muse will spare 
the satiric wiiik in the moment of your foibles ; 
tl)at she will warble the song of rapture round 
jour hymeneal couch ; and that she v.'ill shed on 
your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! 
grant my request as speedily as possible.— Send 
me by the very first fly or coach for this place, 
three copies of the last edition of my poems ; 
which place to my account. 

Now, may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of verse, come among thy hands until 
they be filled with the good things of this life ! 
prayeth 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XXXVI. 



me, and the very first dreadful article was of it- 
self too much for me. 

13th. I have not had a moment to spare from 
incessant toil since the 8ih. I<ife, my dear sir, is 
a serious matter. You know by experience that 
a man's individual self^is a good deal, but believe 
me, a wife and family of children, whenever you 
have the honour to be a husband and a father, will 
show you that your present most anxious hoiirs of 
solicitude are spent on trifles. The welfare of 
those who are very dear to us, whose only support, 
hope, and stay we are— this, to a geiierous mind, 
is another sort of more important object of care 
than any concerns whatever which centre merely 
in the individual. On the other hand, let no 
young, unmarried, rakehelly dog among you, 
make a song of his pretended liberty and freedom 
from care. If the relations we stand in to king, 
countiy, kindred, and friends, be any thing but 
the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysicians ; 
if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, huma- 
nity, and justice be aught but empty sounds ; then 
tlie man who may be said to love only others, for 
the beloved, honourable female whose tender faith- 
ful embrace endears life, and for the helpless lit- 
tle innocents who are to be the men and women, 
the worshippers of his God, the subjects of his 
king, and the support, nay, the very vital exis- 
tence of his country, in the ensuing age ;— com- 
pare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, 
whether he bustle and push in business among la- 
bou rers, clerks, statesmen ; or whether he roar 
and rant, and drink and sing in taverns— a fellow 
over whose grave no one will breathe a single 
heigli-ho, except from the cobweb-tie of what is 
called good fellowship — who has no view nor aim 
but what terminates in himself— if there be any 
grovelling earth-born wretch of our species, a re- 
negado to common sense, who would fain believe 
that the noble creature, man, is no better than a 
sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody 
knows how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobo- 
dy knows wliere ; such a stupid beast, such a 
crawling reptile niight balance the foregoing un- 
• exaggerated comparison, but no one else would 
have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear sir, for this long silence. 
To 'itiake you amends, I shall send you soon, and, 
more encouraging still, without any postage, one 
or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 



To Mr. ROBERT AINSLIE. 



No. XXXVII. 



Ellisland, June 8, 1789. 
My dear friend, 

I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look 
at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the 
friend of my heart and the companion of my pere- 
grinations ; but I have been condemned to drud- 
gei-y beyond suflTerance, though not, thank God, 
beyond redemption. I have had a collection of 
poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare 
them for the press ; which horrid task, with sow- 
ing my com with my own hand, a parcel of ma- 
sons, Wrights, plaisterers, &c. to attend to, roaming 
on business through Ayrshire— all this was against 



To Capt. RIDDEL, Carse. 

Ellisland, Oct. 16, 1789. 



Sir 



Big with the idea of this important day* at Fri- 
ars Carse, I have watched the elements and skies 
in the fuil persuasion that they would announce 
it to the astonished world by some phenomena of 
terrific portent.— Yesternight, until a very late 
hour, did I wait with anxious horror, for the ap- 

* The day on which " the whistle" was con- 
tended for. 



RELIQUES, 



359 



pcarance of some comet firing half the sky; or 
aerial armies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting 
athwart tlie sparkled heavens, rapid as the ragged 
lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of na- 
ture that hury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the matter 
very quietly ; they did not even usher in this 
morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the migh- 
ty claret-shed of the day.— For me, as Thomson in 
his Winter says of the storm— 1 shall " Hear asto- 
nished, and astonished sing" 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 

" Here we are met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loun is he : 
Wha last* beside his chair shall fa' 

He is the king amang us three." 

To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to 
the humble vale of prose.— I have some misgivings 
tliat I take too much upon me, when I request 
you to get your guest, sir Robert Lowrie, to frank 
the two inclosed covers for me, the one of them, 
to sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, hart, 
at Auchenskeith, Kilmarnock,— the other, to Mr. 
Allan Masterton, writing-master, Edinburgh. The 
first has a kindred claim on sir Robert, as being a 
brother baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the 
other is one of the worthiest men in the world, and 
a man of real genius ; so, allow me to say, he has 
a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked 
for to-morrow, as I cannot get them for the post to- 
night.— I shall send a servant again for them in the 
evening. Wishing that your head may be crown- 
ed with laurtls to-night, and free from aches to- 
morro\\', 

I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your deeply indebted hujnble servant. 



No. XXXVIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Sir, 

I wish from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratification 
and return for all your goodness to the ])oet, than 
transcribing a few of his idle rhjnies.— However, 
" an old song," though to a proverb an instance of 
insignificance, is generally the only coin a poet 
has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were equal 

* In former editions of these verses, the word 
Jirst has been printed in this place iuitead of the 
word last. E. 



to the grateful respect and high esteem I bear for 
the gentleman to whom I present them, they would 
be the finest poems in the language.— As they are, 
they will at least be a testin»ony with what since- 
rity I have the honour to be. 

Sir, 
Your devoted humble servant. 



No. XXXIX. 

To Mr. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, Nov. 1, 1789. 
My dear friend, 

I had written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed whei"e to find you, for I am sure you have 
more good sense than to waste- the precious days 
of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edin- 
burgh.— Wherever you are, God bless you, and 
lead you not into temptation, but deliver you from 
evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I am 
now appointed to an excise division, in the middle 
of which my house and farm lie. In this I was 
extremely lucky. Without ever having been an 
expectant, as they call their journeymen excise- 
men, I was directly planted down to all intents 
and pui-poses an officer of excise ; there to flou- 
rish and bring forth fruits— worthy of repent- 
ance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious ganger, will sound in your ears. 
I too have seen the day when my auditory nerves 
would have felt very delicately on tins subject ; 
but a wife and children are things which have a, 
wonderful power in blunting these kind of sensa- 
tions. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provi- 
sion for widows and orphans, you will allow, is no 
bad settlement for a. poet. For the ignominy of 
the profession, I have the encouragement which I 
once heard a recruiting serjeant give to a nume- 
rous, if not a respectable audience, in the streets 
of Kilmarnock.—" Gentlemen, for your further 
and better encouragement, I can assure you that 
our regiment is the most blackguard corps under 
the crown, and consequently with us an honest 
fellow has the surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt tliat I find several very un- 
pleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my bu- 
siness; but I am tired with, and disgusted at the 
language of complaint against the evils of liff. 
Human existence, in the most favourable situa- 
tions, does not abound with pleasures, and has its 
inconveniences and ills ; capricious, foolish man 
mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they 
were the peculiar property of his particular situa- 
tion ; and hence that eternal fickleness, that lovt; 
of change, which has ruined, and daily does ruin 
many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead ; 
and is almost, without exception, a constant source 
of disappointment and misery. 

I long lo hear irom you how you go on— not so 
much in business as in life. Are you pretty well 
satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably at 
ease in your internal reflections ? 'Tis much to 
be a great character as a law yer, but be> ond coia- 



360 



IlELiqUES. 



parison more to be a great character as a man. 
That you may be botli the one and the other is the 
earnest wish, and that you ivill be both, is the firm 
persuasion of, 

My dear sir, &c. 



No. XL. 

To Mr. PETER HILL, Bookseller, Edinburgh. 

Ellis/and, Feb. 2, 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about apologies or 
excuses for not wi-iting— I am a poor, rascally 
ganger, condemned to gallop at least 200 miles 
every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty bai'- 
rels, and whei-e can I find time to write to, or im- 
portance to interest any body ? The upbraidings 
of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, 
have persecuted me on your account these two or 
three months past.— I wish to God I was a great 
man, that my correspondence might throw light 
upon you, to let the world see what you really 
ai-e ; and then I would make your fortune, without 
putting my hand in niy pocket for you, which, 
like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid 
as much as possible. What are you doing, and 
how are you doing ? Have you lately seen any of 
my few fi-iends ? What is become of the borough 
reform, or how is the fate of my poor namesake 
mademoiselle Burns decided ? O man .' but for 
thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest arti- 
fices, that beauteous form, and that oiice innocent 
and still ingenuous mind might have shone con- 
spicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the 
affectionate mother ; and shall the unfortunate 
sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy 
humanity ? 

I saw lately in a Review, some extracts from a 
new poem, called The Village Curate ; send it me. 
I want likewise a cheap copy of The World. Mr. 
Annsti'ong, the young poet, who does me the ho- 
nour to mention me so kindly in his works, please 
give him my best thanks for the copy of his book— 
I shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like 
his poetry much, but I think his style in prose 
quite astonishing. 



Your book came safe, and I am going to trou- 
ble you with fai-ther commissions. I call it troub- 
ling you — because I want only books ; the cheaj)- 
est way, the best ; so ) cu may have to hunt for 
them in the evening auctions. I want Smollett's 
Works, for the sake of his incomparable humour. 
I have already Roderick Random, and Humphrey 
Clinker.— Peregrine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, 
and Ferdinand, Count Fathom, I still want ; but 
as I said, the veriest ordinary copies will serve me. 
I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I 
forget the price of Cowper's Poems, but, 1 believe, 
I must have them. I saw the other day, in-opo- 
sals for a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and 
complete Christian's Family Bible," printed for 
C. Cooke, Paternoster-row, London.— He promises, 
at least, to give in the work, I think it is three 



hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put 
the names of the first artists in London*.— You 
will know the character of the performance, as 
some numbers of it are published ; and if it is 
really what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriber, and send me the published numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure mi- 
nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me 
to pursue my course in the quiet path of metho- 
dical routine. 



No. XLL 

To Mr. W. NICOL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9, 1790. 
My dear sir. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would 
freely have given her price to have saved her : 
she has vexed me beyond description. Indebted 
as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever 
repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to have the 
mare with me. That I might at least show mj- 
readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every 
care of her in my i)ower. She was never crossed 
for riding above half a score of times by me or in 
my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of 
three, for one poor week. I refused fifty-five shil- 
lings for her, which was the highest bode I could 
squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in fine 
order for Dumfries fiiir ; when four or five (Jjiys 
before the fair, she was seized with an unaccount- 
able disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the 
bones of the neck ; with a weakness or total want 
of power in her fillets, and in short, the whole ver- 
tebra; of her spine seemed to be diseased or un- 
hinged, and in eight and forty hours, in sjiite of 
the two best farriers in the country, she died and 
be d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had 

* Perhaps no set of men more effectually avail 
themselves of the easy credulity of the public, 
than a certain description of Patewioster-row book- 
sellers. Three hundred and odd engravings .'—and 
by the ^rst artists in London, too ! No wonder 
that Burns was dazzled by the si)lendour of the 
promise. It is no unusual thing for this class of 
impostors to illustrate the Holy Scriptures by 
plates originally engraved for the History of Eng- 
land, and I have actually seen subjects designed 
by our celebrated artist Stothard, from Clarissa 
Harlowe and the Novclist''s Magazine, converted, 
with incredible dexterity, by these bookselling- 
Breslaws, into scriptural embellishments; One of 
these venders of ' Family Bibles' lately called ou 
me, to consult me professionally about a folio en- 
graving he brought with him.— It represented 
Mons. Buffon, seated, contemplating various 
groups of animals that surrounded him. He mere- 
ly wished, he said to be informed, whether by un- 
clothing the naturalist, and giving him a rather 
more resolute look, tlie plate could not, at a trifling 
expense, be made to pass for " Daniel in the 
lion''s den.''' E^ 



RELIQUES. 



361 



been quite strained in tlic fillets beyond cure be- 
fore you had bought her ; and that the poor devil, 
though she miglit keep a little I'lesh, had been Jad- 
ed and quite worn out with fatigue and oppres- 
sion. While she was with me, she was under my 
own eye, and I assure you, my uuicli valued 
friend, every thing w as done for her that could be 
done ; and the accident has vexed me to the heart. 
In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write you, 
on account of the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our thea- 
trical company, of which }ou must have heard, 
leave us in a week. Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life ; not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been accord- 
ingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twen- 
ty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than the one 
and the house will hold no more than the other. 
There have been repeated instances of sending 
away six, and eight, and ten pounds in a night for 
want of room. A new theatre is to be built by 
subscription ; the first stone is to be laid on Fri- 
day first to come*. Three hundred guineas have 
been raised by thirty subscribei-s, and thirty more 
might have been got if wanted. The manager, 
Mr. Sutherland, Avas introduced to me by a friend 
fi'om Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
^lave rarely met with. Some of our clergy have 
slipt in by stealth now and then ; but they liave 
got up a farce of their own. You must have 
heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, 
seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dun- 
score, and the rest of that faction, have accused, 
in formal process, the unfortunate and Rev, Mr. 
Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordainuig Mr. 
Nelson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, the 
said Heron, feloniously and treasonnbly bound the 
said Nelson to the confession of faith, so far as it 
7vas agreeable to reason and the word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully 
to jou. Little Bobby and Frank are charmingly 
well and healthy. 1 am jaded to death with fa- 
tigue. For these tw o or three moiiths, on an ave- 
rage, I have not ridden less than two hundred 
miles per week. I have done little in the poetic 
way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two prologues; 
one of which was delivered last week. 1 have 
likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas to 
the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of elegy on 
your poor unfortunate jnare, beginning (the iiame 
she got here was Peg Nicholson) 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's Hoating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and tbm; 
But now she's floating dowji the Nith, 
And wanting even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And ance she bore a priest ; 



* On Friday first to come-^ti Scotticism. 



But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair : 
And much oppressed and bruised she was ; 
—As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 

My best compliments to Mrs Nicol, and little 
Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is a good 
scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and ap- 
ples with me next harvest. 



No, XLII. 

To Mr. MURDOCH, Teacher of French, London. 

Ellidand. July 16, 1790. 
My dear sir, 

I received a letter fi'om you a long time ago, 
but unfortunately as it was in the time of my pe- 
rej^-inations and journeyings through Scotland, I 
mislaid or lost it, and by consequence your direc- 
tion along with it. Luckily my good star brought 
me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, who, I under- 
stand, is an acquaintance of yours: and by his 
means and mediation I hope to replace that link 
which my unfortunate n< gligence had so unlucki- 
ly broke in the chain of our correspondence. 1 
was the more vexed at the vile accident, as my 
brother William, a journeyman saddler, has been 
for some time in London ; and wished above all 
things for jour direction, that he might have paid 
his respects to Ins father'' s friend. 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. Burns, 
at Mr. Barber's, saddler. No. 181^ Strand." I write 
him by Mr. Kennedy, but I neglected to ask hiui 
for your address ; so, if you find a spare half mi- 
nute, please let my brother know by a card wher<: 
and when he will find you, and the poor fellow 
will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few sur- 
A iving friends of the man whose name, and Chris- 
tian name too, he has the honour to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long one. 
I have much to tell you of " hair-breadlh 'scapes 
in th' imniineiit deadly breach," with all the ■ vent- 
ful history of a life, the early years of which owed 
so much to your lund tutorage; but this at an 
hour of leisure. My kindest compliiiients to Mrs. 
Murdoch and family. 

I am ever, my dear sir, 

Your obliged friend*. 

* This letter was communicated to the editui 
by a gentleman to whose liberal advice and infor- 
mation he is much indebted, Mr. John Murdoch, 
the tutor of the poet ; accompanied by the follow- 
ing interesting note. 

London, Hart-street Bloomsburij, 
20th Dec. 1807. 
Dear sir. 

The following letter, which I lately found 
among nij papers, I copy for your perusal, partly 
because it is Burns's, partly because it makes ho- 
nourable mention of my rational Christian friendj 

Z 7, 



S6g 



RELIQUES. 



No. XLIII. 



To CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edinburgh. 

Ellislmul, Oct. 15, 1790. 
Dear sir, 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
tlie bearer. Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man 
to the law, in which department he comes up an 
adventurer to your good town. I shall give 30U 
my friend's character in two words : as to his 
head, he has talents enough, and more than 
enough for common life ; as to his heart, when 
nature had kneaded the kindly clay that composes 
it, she said, " I can no more." 

You, my good sir, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, 
can enter into the feelings of the young man, who 
goes into life with the laudable ambition to'rfo 
somt thing, and to be something among his fellow 

his father ; and likewise because it is rather flat- 
te<-ing to myself. I glory in no one thing so 
much as an intimacy with good men:— the friend- 
ship of others reflects no honour. When I i-ecol- 
lect the pl«asure (and I hope benefit) I received 
from the conversation of fillliam Burns, especial- 
ly when, on the Lord's day, we walked together 
for about two miles, to the house of prayer, there 
publicly to adore and praise the Giver of all good, 
I entertain an ardent hope, that together we shall 
" renew the glorious theme in distant worlds," 
with powers more adequate to the mighty subject, 
the exuberant beneficence of the great Crew or. But 
to the letti^r :—lHe7-e follows the letter relative to 
young JVm. Burns.'] 

I promised myself a deal of happiness in the 
conversation of my dear young friend; but niy 
promises of this nature generally prove fallacious. 
Two visits were the lUmost that I received. At 
one of them, however, he repeated a lesson which 
I had given him about twenty years befoi-e, when 
he was a mere child, concerning the pity and ten- 
derness due to animals. To that lesson, (which 
it seems was brought to tlie level of his capacity,) 
he declared himself indebted for almost all the 
philanthropy he possessed. 

Let not parents and teachers imagine that it is 
needless to talk seriously to children. They are 
sooner fit to be reasoned with than is generally 
thought. Strong and indelible impressions are to 
be made before the mind be agitated and rufiled 
by the numerous train of distracting cares and un- 
ruly passions, whereby it is frequently rendered 
almost unsusceptible of the principles and i)re- 
cepts of rational religion and sound morality. 

But I find myself digressing again. Poor Wil- 
liam ! then in the bloom and vigour of youth, 
taught a putrid fever, and, in a few days, as real 
chit f mourner, I followed his remains to th land 
of forgetfulness* 

•TOHN ]MURDOCH. 



creatures ; but whom the consciousness of A-iend- 
less obscuiity presses to the earth, and wounds to 
the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. 
That independent spirit, and that ingenuous mo- 
desty, qualities inseparable from a noble mind, 
are, with the million, circumstances not a little 
disqualifying. What pleasure is in the power of 
the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and 
patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad 
the heart of such depressed youth ! I am not so 
angry with mankind for their deaf economy of 
the purse : — the goods of this world cannot be di- 
vided, without beiiig lessened— but why be a nig- 
gard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow crea- 
ture, yet lakes nothing from our own means of 
enjoyment ? We wrap ourselves up in the cloaks 
of our own better fortune and turn away our 
eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother 
mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our 
souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, witliout any positive request, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be 
acquired at a plough-tail. Tell nie then, for you 
can. in what periphrasis of language, in what cir- 
cumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope yet not 
conceal this plain story.—" My dear Mr. Tait, my 
friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of 
introducing to you. is a young lad of your own pro- 
fession, and a gentleman of much modesty and 
great worth. Perhaps it may be in j our power to 
assist him in the, to him, important consideration 
of getting a place ; but at all events, your notice 
and acquaintance will be a very great acquisition 
to him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will ne- 
ver disgrace your favour," 

You may possibly be surprised, sir, at such a 
letter from me ; 'tis, I own. in the usual way of 
calculating these matters, more than our acquaint- 
anct entitles me to ; but my answer is short : Of 
all the men at your time of life, whom I knew in 
Edinburgh, you are the most accessible on the 
side on which I have assailed you. You are very 
much altered indeed from what you were when I 
knew you, if generosity point the path you will 
not tread, or humanity call to you in \ain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe 
5'ou are still a well-wisher; I am here, breathing 
at all times, thinking sometimes, and rhyniing 
now and then. Every situation has its share of 
the cares and pains of life, and my situation I am 
persuaded has a full ordinary allowance of its 
pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please x-emem- 
ber me in the solemn league and covenant of 
friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch for 
not writing to her; but I am so hackneyed with 
self-accusatio:. in that way, that my conscience 
lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an 
oyster in its shell. Where is lady M'Kenzie? 
Wherever she is, God bless her ! I likewise beg 
leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. Wra. 
Hamilton; Mrs, Hamilton and family; and Mrs.' 



RELIQUES. 



365 



Chalmers, when you are in that country. Sliould 
you meet with Mrs. Ninuuo, please remember me 
kindly to her. 



To 



Dear sir, 

WhetJier in the way of my trade, I can be of 
any service to the reverend doctor*, is I fear very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think; of seven 
bull hides and a plate of brass, which altogether 
set Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I 
am not a Hector, and the worthy doctor's foes are 
as securely armed as Ajax was. IgDoraace, siipn-- 
stition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-con- 
ceit, envy— all strongly bound in a massy frame of 
brazen impudence. Good God, sir! to sucli a 
shield humour is the peck of a sparrow, and sa- 
tire the pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation-disgrac- 
ing scclerats such as they. God only can mend, 
and the Devil only can punish. In the compre- 
hending way of Caligula, I wish they had all but 
one neck. I feel impotent as a child to the ardour 
of my wishes ! O for a withering curse to blast 
the germins of their wicked machinations. O for 
a poisonous tornado, winged from the torrid zone 
of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of their 
villainous contrivances to the lowest hell ! 



send you ; and God knows you may perhaps pay 
dear enough for it if you read it through. Not 
that this is my own opinion ; but an author, by the 
time he has composed and corrected his work, has 
quite poured away all his powers of critical discri-^ 
mination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what you 
have felt on a late most melancholy event. God 
knows what I have suffered, at the loss of my best 
friend, my first, my dearest patron and benefactor; 
the man to whom I owe all that I am and have! I 
am gone into mourning for him, and with more sin- 
cerity of grief than I fear some will, who, by na- 
ture's ties, ought to feel on the i ''cjasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, tO 
let me know the news of the noble family, how 
the poor mother and the two sisters support their 
loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to 
send to lady Betty, when 1 saw the fatal tidings in 
the newspaper I see by the same channel that 
the honoured remaina of my noble patron, are de- 
signed to be brought to the family burial-place. 
Dare I trouble you to let me know privately be- 
fore the day of interment, that I may cross the 
country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear 
to the last sight of my ever-revered benefactor .' 
It will oblige me beyond expression. 



No. XL VI. 

Mr. THOMAS SLOAN, care of Wm. Kennedyj 
Esq. Manchester. 



To Mr. ALEXANDER DALZIELf, Factor, 
Findlayston. 

EUisland, March 19, 1791. 
My dear sir, 

I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to 
you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, which I 

* Dr. M-Gill of Ayr. The poet gives the best 
illustration of this letter in one addressed to Mr. 
Graham. See General Correspondence, No. 86. 

t This gentleman, the factor, or steward, of 
Burns's noble friend, lord Glencairn, with a view 
to encourage a second edition of the poeins, laid 
the volume before his lordship, with such an ac- 
count of the rustic bard's situation and prospects 
as, from his slender acquaintance with him, he 
could furnish. The result, as communicated to 
Eurns by Dalziel, is highly creditable to the cha- 
racter of lord Glencairn. After reading the book, 
his lordship declared that its merits greatly ex- 
ceeded his expectation, and he took it with him as 
a literary curiosity to Edinburgh. He repeated 
his wishes to be of service to Burns, and desired 
Mr. Dalziel to inform him, that in patrowizing 
the book, ushering it with effect into the world, 
or treating with the booksellers, he would most 
willingly give every aid in his power ; adding his 
request, that Burns would take the earliest oppor- 
tunity of letting him know in what way or man- 
ner he could best further his interests. He also 
expressed a wish to see some of (he unpublished 



EUisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 
My dear Sloan, 

Suspence is worse than disappointment; for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that 1 just now" 
learn that Mr. Ballantrne does not chuse to inter- 
fere more in the business. I am truly soriy foi' 
it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner ; but 
you will please to recollect that you omitted ono 
little necessary piece of information ;— your ad- 
dress. 

However, you know equally well my hurried 
life indolent temper, and strength of attachment. 
It must be a longer ijeriod than the longest life 
" in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that 
will make me forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. 
I am prodigal enough at times, but I will not part 
with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of your 
present situation. You know my favourite quot 
tation from Young— 

— — — " On reason build resolve ! 

That column of true majesty in man."— • 

And that other favourite one from Thomson's 
Alfred- 

" What proves the hero truly great. 
Is, never, never to despair." 

manuscripts, with a view (o establish his character 
V j'^ the world. E. 



364 



ilELIQUES. 



Or, shall I quote you an author of your ac- 
quaintance ? 

" Whether doing, sneering, or forbearing. 

You may do miracles hy— persevering.''^ 

I have nothing new to tell j'ou. The few 
friends we have are going on in the old way. I 
sold my crop on this day se'nnight. and sold it 
very well. A guinea an acre, on an avei'age, above 
value. But such a scene of drunkenness was 
hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup 
was over, about thirty people engaged in a battle, 
every man for li i» own hand, and fought it out for 
three hours. Nor was the scene much better in 
the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying 
drunk on the floor and decanting, until both my 
dogs got so drunk by attending them, that they 
could not stand. You will easily guess how I en- 
joyed the scene ; as I was no farther over than 
you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these 
many weeks. 

Farewel ! and God bless you, my dear friend ! 



No. XLVII. 

To FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F. A. S. 

1792. 
Sir, 

I believe among all our Scots literati you have 
not met with professor Dugald Stewart, who fills 
the moral philosophy chair in the university of 
Edinburgh. To say that he is a man of the first 
parts, and what is more, a man of the first worth, 
to :i gentleman of your general acquaintance, and 
■who so miich enjoys the luxury of unincumbei'ed 
freedom and undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps 
recommendation enough :— but when I inform you 
that Mr. Stewart's principal characteristic is your 
favourite feature ; that sterling independence of 
mind, which, though evei-y man's right, so few 
men have the courage to claim, and fewer still the 
magnanimity to support:— when I tell you, that un- 
seduced by splendour, and undisgusted by wretch- 
edness, he appreciates the merits of the various 
actors in the great drama of life, merely as they 
perform their parts— in short, he is a man after 
your o\vn heart, and 1 comply with his earnest re- 
quest in letting you know that he wishes above all 
things to meet M'ith you. His house, Catrine, is 
within less than a mile of Son; Castle, wliich you 
proposed visiting; or if you could transmit him 
the enclosed, he would with the greatest pleasure, 
meet you any where in the neighbourliood. I 
wi-ite to Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I 
have acquitted myself of my promise. Should 
your time and spirits permit your meeting with 
Mr, Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will for- 
g(it this liberty, and I have at least an opportunity 
of assuring you with what truth and respect, 
I am, sir. 

Your great admirer. 

And very humble servant. 



No. XLVIII. 



TO THE SAME. 



Among the many witch-stories I have heard re- 
lating to Aloway Kirk, I distinctly remember only 
two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of 
wiaid. and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on such a 
night as the devil would chuse to take the air in ; a 
farmer, or farmer's servant, was plodding and 
plashing homeward with his i>lough-irons on his 
shoulder, having been getting some repairs on 
them at a neighbouring snathy. His way lay by 
the kirk of Alov, ay, and being rather on the anx- 
ious look-out in approaching a place so well known 
to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the de- 
vil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast 
by discovering thi'ough the horrors of the storm 
and stormy night, a light, which, on his nearer ap- 
proach, plainly showed itself to proceed from the 
haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified 
from above on his devout supplication, as is custo- 
mary with people when they suspect the immedi- 
ate presence of Satan ; or whether, according to 
another custom, he had got courageously drunk at 
the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; but 
so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay into 
the very kirk. As good luck would have it, his 
temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all out 
on some midnight business or other, and he saw 
nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, depend- 
ing from tlie roof, over tlje fire, simmering some 
heads of unehristened children, limbs of executed 
malefactors, &c. for the business of the night.— 
It was, in for a penny, in for a pound, with the 
honest ploughman : so without ceremony he un- 
hooked the caldron from off the fire, and pouring 
out the damnable ingredients, inverted it on his 
head, and canned it fairly home, where it remain- 
ed long in the family, a living evidence of the 
truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be equally 
authentic, was as follows : 

On a market day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by 
the very gate of Aloway kirk-yard, in order to 
cross the river Doon at the old biidge, which is 
about two or three hundred yards further on than 
the said gate, had been detained by his business, 
'till by the time he reached Aloway it was the wi- 
zard hour, between night and morning. 

Though he was terrified Avith a blaze streaming- 
from the kirk, yet, as it is a well-known fact that, 
to turn back on these occasions, is running by fur 
the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently ad- 
vanced on his road. Wlien he had reached the 
gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and enter- 
tained, through the ribs and arches of an old gothie 
window, which still faces the highway, to see a 
dance of witches merrily footing it round their 
old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping 
them all alive with the power of his bag-pipe. 
The farmer, stopping his horse to observe tliem a 



KELIQUES. 



rf65 



little, could plainly descry the faces of many old 
women of his acquaintance and neiahbourhood. 
How the gentleman was dressed, tradition does not 
say; but the ladies were all in their smocks: and 
one of them happening- unluckily to have a smock 
which was considerably too short to answer ail the 
purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was so 
tickled, that he involuntarily burst out with a 
loud laugh, " VVeel luppen, Maggy wi' the short 
sark !" and recollecting himself, instantly spurred 
his horse to the top of his speed. I need not men- 
tion the universally known fact, that no. diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the middle of a 
running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer 
that the river Doon was so near, for notw ithstand- 
ing the speed of his horse, which v. as a good one, 
against he reached the middl. of tlie arch of the' 
bridge, and consequently the middle of tlie stream, 
the pursuing vengeful hags w. re so close at his 
heels, that one of them actually sprung lo seize 
him ; but it was too late, nothing was on her side 
of the stream but the horse's tail, which immedi- 
ately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted 
by a stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was be- 
yond her reach. However, the unsightly, tail- 
less condition of the vigorous steed was to the last 
hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warn- 
ing to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in 
Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified as the two former, 
with ri-gard to the scene : but as the best aulhori- 
ti j9 give it for Aioway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that na- 
ture puts on her sables to mourn the ex}»iry of the 
cheerful day, a shepherd boy belonging to a far- 
mer in the immediate neighbourhuod of Aioway 
kirk, had just folded his charge, and was return- 
ing home. As he passed thi- kirk, in the adjoining 
field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, 
who were busy pulling stenjs of the plant of rag- 
wort. He observed that as each person pulled a 
ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, 
" up horsie!" on which the ragwort fiew off, like 
Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The fool- 
ish boy likewise pulled his ragwort and cried with 
the rest, " up horsie I" and, strange to tell, away 
he flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopt, was a mereliant's wine- 
cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying by your 
leave, they quaffed away at the best the cellar 
could afford, until the morning, foe to the imps 
and works of darkness, threatened to tln-ow light 
on the matter, and frightened them from their "ca- 
rousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger 
to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself 
drunk; and when tht rest took horse, he fell 
asleep, and was found so next day by some of the 
people belonging to the merchant. Somebody 
that understood Scotcii, a.king him what he was, 
he said he wa^such-a-one's herd in Aioway, and 
by some means 0r other getting home again, he 
lived long to tell the world the wondrous tale. 
I am, &e. &e.* 



No. XLIX. 



lo R. GRAHAM, Esq. Fintry. 



December, 1792. 
Sir, 

I have been surprised, confounded, and dis- 
tracted, by Mr. Mitchel, the collector, telling me 
that he has received an order from your board to 
enquire into my political conduct, and blaming me 
as a person disaffected to government. Sir, you 
are a husband— and a father.— You know what 
you would feel, to see the much-loved wife of your 
bosom and your helpless, prattling little ones 
turned adrift into the world, degraded and dis- 
graced from a situation in which th.y had been 
respectable and respected, ajid left almost w ithout 
the necessary support of a miserable existence. 
Alas, sir ! must I think that such, soon, will be 
my lot ! and from the d-mned. dark insinuations 
of hellish groundless envy too i I believe, sir, 1 
niay aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, 
that I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, 
not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, 
than thost I have mentioned, hung over my head ; 
and I say, that the allegation, whatever villain 
has made it, is a lie ! To the British constitution, 
on revolution principles, next after my God, I am 
most devoutly attached I You. sir. have been much 
and generously my friend.— Heaven knows how 
warmly I have felt the obligation, an<l how grate- 
fully I have thanked you.— Fortune, sir, has made 
you powerful, and me impotent; has given yon 
patronage, and me dependance.— I would not, for 
my single self, call on your humanity ; were such 
my insular, uncotujected situation, 1 would des- 
pise the tear that now swells in my eye— I could 
brave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for at the 
worst, '• Death's thousand doors stand open ;" but, 
g-ood God ! the tender concerns that I have men- 
tioned, the claims and ties that I see at tftis mo- 
ment, and feel around me, how they unnerve cou- 
rage, and wither resolution ! To your patronage, 
as a man of some genius, )ou have allowed me a 
clann ; and yoia- esteem, as an honest man, I know 
is my due : to these, sir, v-t^rmit me to appeal ; by 
these may I adjure you to save me from tliat nu- 
stry which lluvntons to overwhelm me, and which, 
with my latest breath I will say it, I have not de- 
served. 



* This letter was copied from the Censura Li- 
feroTin, 1780. It was communicated to the editor 



of that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, with 
the following remark. 

" In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the 
antiquary Grose, which I purchased a i'cw years 
since, I found the following letter written to him 
by Burns, when the fonner was collecting the an- 
tiquities of Scotland ; when I ])remise it was on 
the second tradition that he afterwards formed the 
inimitable tale of " Turn O'Shauter,'' I cannot 
doubt of its being read with great interest. It 
were « burning day-light'' to point out to a rea- 
der, (and who is not a reader of Bums?) the 
thoughts he afterwards transplant, d into the rhvth- 
niical narralivr.' q ^" 



365. 



RELIQUES. 



No. L. 

To ]SIr. S. CLARKE, Edinburgh. 

Juhj, 16, 1792. 
Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most res- 
pectful compliments to Mr. Clarke.— Mr. B. some 
time ago did himself the honour of writing Mr. C. 
respecting coming out to the country, to give a 
little musical instruction in a liighly respectable 
family, where Mr. C may have his own terms, 
and may be as happy as indolence, the Devil, and 
the gout will permit him. Mr. B. knows well how 
Mr. C. is engaged with another family ; but can- 
not Mr. C. find two or three weeks to spare to 
each of them ? Mr. B. is deeply impressed with, 
and awfully conscious of, the high importance of 
Mx. C.'s time, whether in the winged moments of 
sjTiiphonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, 
' while listening seraphs cease their own less de- 
lightful strauis ;— or in the drowsy hours of slumb'- 
rous repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved el- 
bow-chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of 
indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and 
sheds her dews on, the head of her darling son.— 
But half a line conveying half a meaning from 
Mr. C. would make Mr. B. the very happiest of 
mortals. 



No. LI. 

To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Dec. 31, 1792. 
Dear madam, 

A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my ab- 
sence, has until now prevented my returning my 
grateful acknowledgments to the good family of 
Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable 
kindness m hich rendered the four days I spent un- 
der tlfet genial roof, four of the pleasantest I ever 
enjoyed.— Alas, my dearest friend ! how few and 
fleeting are those things we call pleasures ! On 
my road to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend 
whom I much valued ; a man whose days promis- 
ed to be many :_ and on Saturday last we laid him 
in tlie dusti 



Jan. 2, 17Q3. 
I have just received yours of the 30th, and feel 
much for your situation. However, I heartily re- 
joice in your prospect of recovery from that vile 
jaundice. As to myself I am better, though not 
quite free of my complaint. You must not think, 
as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I 
want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- 
sional liard drinking is the devil to me. Against 
this I have again and again bent my resolution, 
and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have to- 
tally abandoned : it is the private parties in the 
family way, among the hard-di'inking gentlemen 



of this country, that do me the mischief— but even 
this I have more than half given over*. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little strvice to me at 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying. I 
cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for se- 
veral years. I must wait the rotation of the list, 
and there are twenty names before mine.— I might 
indeed get a job of officiating, where a settled su- 
pervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls me from 
my family, as I could not remove them on such an 
uncertainty. Besides, some envious, malicious de- 
vil has raised a little d>-mHr on my political prin- 
ciples, and I wish to let that matter settle before 
I offer myself too much in the eye of my supervi- 
sors. I have set henceforth a seal on my lips, as 
to these unlucky politics ; but to you I must 
breathe my sentiments. In this, as in every thing 
else, I shall show the undisguised emotions of my 
soul. War I deprecate ; misery and ruin to thou- 
sands are in the blast that announces the destruc- 
tive demon. But * * * * 
[The remainder of this letter has been torn away 
by some barbarous hand."] 



No. LIT. 

To PATRICK MILLER, Esq. of Dalswinton. 

April, 1793. 
Sir, 

My poems having just come out in another edi- 
tion, will you do me tlie honour to accept of a 

* The following extract of a letter addressed 
by Ml-. Bleomfield to the earl of Buchan, contains 
so interesting an exhibition of the modesty inhe- 
rent in real worth, and so philosophical, and at the 
same time so poetical an estimate of the diffei'ent 
characters and destinies of Burns and its author, 
that I should deem myself culpable were I to with- 
hold it from the public view. E. 

" The illustrious soul that has left amongst us 
the name of Burns, has often been lowered down 
to a comparison with me ; but the comparison ex- 
ists more in circumstances than in essentials. That 
man stood up with the stamp of superior intellect 
on his brow ; a visible greatness : and great and 
patriotic subjects would only have called into ac- 
tion the powers of his mind, which lay inactive 
while he played calmly and exquisitely the pasto- 
ral pipe. 

' The letters to which I have alluded in my 
preface to the ' Rural Tales,' were friendly warn- 
ings, pointed with immediate reference to the fate 
of that extraordinary man. ' Remember Burns,' 
has been the watch-word of my friends. I do re- 
member Burns ; but I am not Burns 1 neither 
have- I his fire to fan or to quench ; nor his pas- 
sions to controul I Where then is my merit if I 
make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, and with 
no mutiny on board ? To a ladj O. have it from 
herself), who rei.oiistrated witkjiim on his danger 
from drink, and liu- pursuits of some of his asso- 
ciatesj he replied. ' madam, they would i.ot thank 
me for my company, if I did not drink with them : 



UELIQUES. 



3cr 



•cVpy ? A mark of my gfi'atJtutl^ to j'ou, as a gen- 
tleman to whose goodness I have been much in- 
debted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, 
in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion 
of the liberties of my country ; and of my venera- 
tion for you, as a man, whose benevolence of heart 
does honour to human nature. 

There ivas a time, sir, when I was your depen- 
dant : this language then would have been like the 
vile incense of flattery— I could not have used it.— 
Now that connexion* is at an end, do me the ho- 
nour to accept of this honest tribute of respect 
from, sir, 

Your much indebted humble servant. 



No. LIII. 

To JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, Esq.f of Mar. 

Dumfries, IZth April, 1793. 
Sir, 

Degenerate as human nature is said to be \ and 
in many instances, worthless and unprincipled it 
is; still there are bright examples to the contrary; 
examples that even in the eyes of supei-ior beings, 
must shed a lustre on the name of man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when 
you, sir, came forward to patronize and befriend a 
distant obscure sti-anger, merely because poverty 
had made him helpless, and his British hardihood 
of mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of 
power. My much-esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of 
Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a let- 
ter he had from you. Accept, sir, of the silent 
throb of gratitude ; for words would but mock the 
emotions of my soul. 

You Jiave been misinformed as to my final dis- 
mission from the excise ; I am still in the service, 
ndeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman who 
must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a 
gentleman who has ever been my warm and gene- 
rous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing, 
or the slightest previous intimation, been turned 

I must give them a slice of my constitution.' How 
much to be regretted that he did not give them 
thinner slices of his constitution, that it might 
have lasted longer !" 
London, 1802. 

* Alluding to the time when he held the farm 
of Ellisland, as tenant to Mr. 5f. 

t This gentleman most obligingly favoured the 
editor with a perfect copy of the original letter, 
and allowed him to lay it befwe the public— It is 
partly printed in Dr. Curric''s edition. 

It will be necessary to state, that in conse- 
quence of the poet's freedom of remark on public 
measures, maliciously misrepresented to the board 
of excise, he was represented as actually dismissed 
from his office.— This report induced Mr. Erskine 
to propose a subscription in his favour, which was 
refused by the poet with that elevation of senti- 
ment that peculiarly characterized his mind, and 
which is so happily displayed in this letter. See 
letter No. 49, written by Burns, with even more 
than his accustomed pathos and eloquence, in fur- 
ther explanation, E. 



^n 

fc 



adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors 
of want.— Had I had anj- other resource, probably 
I might have saved them tlie trouble of a dismis- 
sion ; but the little money I gained by my publi- 
cation, is almost every guinea embarked, to save 
from ruin an only brother, who, though one of 
the worthiest, is by n© means one of the most for- 
tunate of men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, that 
whatever might be my sentiments of republics, an- 
cient or modera, as to Britain, I abjured tlie idea. 
That a constitution, which, in its original princi- 
ples, experience had proved to be every way fitted 
for our happiness in society, it would be insanity 
to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory : — that, 
in consideration of my being situated in a depart- 
ment, however humble, immediately in the hands 
of the people in power, I had forborne taking any 
active part, either personally, or as an author in 
the present business of j-e/bfwBput that, where 
I raust declare my sentiment^|^%rould say there 
existed a system of corruption Tietween the execu- 
tive power, and the representative part of the le- 
gislature, which boded no good to our glorious 
constitution; and whicli every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended.— Some such sentiments 
as these, I stated in a letter to my generous patron, 
Mr. Graliara, which he laid before the board at 
large ; where, it seems, my last remark gave great 
offence ; and one of our supervisors general, a Mr. 
Corbet, was instructed to enquire on the spot, and 
to document me—'" that my business was to act, 
not to think ; and that whatever might be men or 
measures, it was for me to be silent and obe- 
dient." 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; so 
between Mr. Graham and hiui, I have been partly 
forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes of my 
getting officially forward, are blasted. 

Now, sir, to the business in which I would more 
immediately interest you. The partiality of my 
countrymen has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to support. 
In the poet I have avowed manly and independent 
sentinjents, which I trust will be found in the ?rmn. 
Reasons of no less weight tlum tlie support of a 
wife and family, have pointed out as the eligible, 
and, situated as I was, the only eligible line of life 
for me, my present occupation. Still my honest 
fame is my dearest concern ; and a thousand times 
have I trembled at the idea of those degrading 
epithets that malice or misrepresentation may af- 
fix to my name. I have often, in blasting antici- 
pation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, 
with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exult- 
ing in hisf hireling paragraphs—" Burns, notwith- 
standing the fanfaronade of independence to be 
found in his works, and after having been held 
forth to public view, and to public estimation, as a 
man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of re- 
sources within himself to support his borrowed dig- 
nity, he dwindled into a ])altry exciseman, and 
slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in 
the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
majikind." 

In your illustrious hands, sir, i)ermit me to lodge 
my disavowal and defiance of these slanderous 
falsehoods.— B?r/V!o? was a poor r.iau from birth, 



368 



MELlQLEb. 



and au exciseman liy neeessity : but—/ will say 
it J the stei'ling of his honest wovth, no poverty 
could debase, and his independent British mind, 
oppression might bend, but could not subdue. 
HaAe not I, to me, a more precious stake in my 
country's Avelfare, than the ritlu st dukedom in it ? 
I have a large family of chikhtn, and the pros- 
pect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see 
already, have brought into the world souls ill qua- 
lified to inhabit the bodies of slaves.— Ca.n I look 
tamely on, and see any machination to wrest from 
them the birthright of ray boys,— the little inde- 
pendent Britons, in whose veins runs my own 
blood ?— No ! I w ill not I should my heart's blood 
stream around my attempt to defend it .' 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can 
be of no service ; and that it does not belong to 
my humble station to meddle with the concerns of 
a nation ? j^^ 

I can tell l)4^Bpt it is on such individuals as 
I, tliat a natioi^Bto rest, both for the hand of 
support, and the eye of intelligence. The unin- 
formed mob may swell a nation's bulk ; and the 
titled, tinsled, courtly throng, may be its feather- 
ed ornament ; but the nuiflber of those who are 
elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, 
yet low enough to keep clear of the venal conta- 
gion of a court ;— these are a nation's strength. 

I know not how to apologise for the imperti- 
nent length of this epistle ; but one small request 
I must ask of yon farther— When you have ho- 
noured this letter with a perusal, please to commit 
it to the flames." Bui-ns, in whose behalf you have 
so genei-ously interested yourself, I have here, in 
his native colours, drawn as ht is ; but should any 
of the people in whose hands is the very bread he 
eats, get the least knowledge of the picture, it 
7vould ruin the poor hiiv^forever ! 

My poems having just come out in another edi- 
tion, I beg leave to present you with a copy, as a 
small mark of that high esteem and ai-dent grati- 
tude, with which I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your deeply indebted, 

And ever devoted humble sei'vant. 



No. LIV. 
To Mr. ROBERT AIXSLIE. 

April 26, 1793. 

I am d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, 
and that is the reason why I take up the pen to 
you : 'tis the nearest way (prcbatum est) to reco- 
ver ray spirits again. • 

I received your last, and was much entertained 
with it ; but I w ill not at this time, nor at any other 
time, answer it.— Answer a letter .' I never could 
answer a letter in my life .'—I have written many 
a letter in return for letters I have received; but 
then— they were original matter— spurt-away ! zig, 
here ; zag, there ; as if the devil, that, my gran- 
nie (au old woman indeed !) often told me, rode in 
will-o'-wisp, or. in her more classic phrase, SpU7}kie, 
V ere looking over my elbow.— Happy thought that 
idea has engendered in my head I Spimkic— thou 



shalt henceforth be my symbol, signiature, and tu- 
telai-y genius! Like thre, hap-^ttp-and-lowp, 
hei*e-aw a-there-awa, higglety-pigglety. pell-mell, 
hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up 
taUs-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon ; has br. n, is, and 
shall be, my progress througli the mosses and 
moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a 
life of ours. 

Come, then, my guardian spirit ! like thee, may 
I skip away, amusing myself by, and at my own 
light : and if any opaque-souled lubber of man- 
kind comphMU that my elfine, lambent, glimmerous 
wanderings have misled his stupid steps ov<.r pre- 
cipices, or into bogs ; let the thick-headed blun- 
derbuss recollect that he is not S/m nk ie .—th&t 

Spunkie^s wanderings could not copied be ; 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he.— 



I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught 
as a Scotsman catches the itch,— by friction. How 
else can you account for it, that born blockheads, 
by mere dint of handling books, grow so wise that 
even they themselves are equally convinced of, and 
surprised at their own parts ? I once carried this 
philosophy to that degree, that in a knot of coun- 
try folks who had a library amongst them, and w ho, 
to the honour of their good sense, made mc facto- 
tum in the business ; one of our members, a little, 
wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
taylor, I advised him, instead of turning over the 
leaves, Jo bind th: hook on kis back.—SoYin\Q took 
the hint ; and as our meetings were every fourth 
Saturday, and Prickloust having a good Scots mile 
to walk in coming, and, of course, another in re- 
turning. Bodkin was sure to lay his hands on some 
heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and under 
which, wrapt up in his grey plaid, he grew wise,^ 
as he grew weary, all the Avay iiome. He carried! 
this so far, that an old musty Hebrew concordance^ 
which we had in a present from a neighbouring 
priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do 
a blistering plaister, between his shoulders. Stitch, 
in a dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational 
theology, as the said priest bad done by forty years 
perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell mc truly, what you think of 
tliis theory. 

Yours, 

SPUNKIE. 



No. LV. 



To Miss K- 



Jladam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed 
song, as a small though grateful tribute for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your por- 
trait in the unembellished simple manner of de- 
scriptive truth. — Flattery I leave to your lovers, 
whose exaggerating fancies may make them ima- 
gine you still nearer perfection than you really 
are. 



RELIQUES. 



369 



^oets, madam, of all mankind, feci most forcibly 
the powers of beauty ; as. sf tliey are really /joets 
of nature's making, their feelings must l)e finer, 
and their taste more delicate than most of the 
\vorld. In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the 
pensive mildness of aulitmn ; the grandeur of 
iumnter, or the hoary majesty of 7vi)itcr ; the poet 
feels a charm uidvnown to the rest of his species. 
Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of 
a fine woman, (by far the finest part of God's 
works below) have sensations for the poetic heart, 
that the /icrd of man are strangers to.— On this 
last account, madam. I am, as in many other 
things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in in- 
troducing me to you. Your lovers may view you 
with a wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their 
hearts, in your presi uce. may glow with desire, 
mine rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, how ever they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight 
wound, may never reacli your heai-t— that the 
snai-es of villainy may never beset you in the 
road of life— that innocence may hand you by the 
path of honour to the dwelling of peace, is the sin- 
cere wish of liim who has the honour to be, Sec. 



No. LVI. 

To LADY GLE.VCAIRX. 

My lady, 

^ The honour you have done your poor poet, in 
writing him so very obliging a letter, and the plea- 
sure the enclosed beautiful verses have given hini, 
came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless 
gloom and sinking despondency of diseased nerves 
and December weather. As to forgetting the fa- 
mily of Gtencairn, Heaven is my witness with 
what sincerity I could use those old verses, which 
please me more in their rude simplicity than the 
most elegant lines I ever saw : 

If tltee, Jerusalem, I forget. 

Skill part from my right hand.— 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set.— 

When I am tempted to do any thing improper, I 
dare not, because I look on myself as accountable 
to your ladyship and family. Now ajid then, w 1r n 
I have the honour to be called to the tables of the 
great. If I hajjpen to meet with any mortification 
from the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squiies. 
or the luxuriant insolence of upstart nabobs, I get 
above the creatvn-es by calling to remeinbrance that 
I am patronised by the noble house of Glencairn ; 
and at gala-times, such as new-year's day, a chris- 
tening, or the kira-night, when my punch-bowl is 
brought fn)m its dusty corner, and filled up in ho- 
nour of the occasion, I begin \\\t\x—the coUntess of 
Glencairn ! My good woman, with the enthusiasm 
of a grateful Iieait, next cnes, trnj lord.' and so 
the luast goes on until I end with ladu Harrir^S 



little angel! whose einihalamiura I have pledged 
njyself to w rite. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I was 
just in the act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
w ith my late change of life. I mentioned to my 
lord, my fears conceniing'my farm. Those fears 
were indeed too true ; it is a bargain would have 
ruined me but for the lueky circumstance of my 
having an excise commission. 

Peopk' may talk as they please, of the ignominy 
of the excise ; fifty pounds a year will support my 
wife and children, and keep me independent of the 
world ; aisd I would much rather ha^e it said that 
my profession borrowed credit from me tlian that 
I borrowed credit from my profession. Another 
advantage I have in this business, is the know- 
ledge it gives me of the various shades of liuman 
character consequently assisting me vastly in my po- 
etic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for 
the muses w hen nobody knew me but myself, and 
that ardour is by no means cooled now that my 
lord Glencairn's goodjiess has introduced me to all 
the world. Not that I am in haste for the press. 
I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly had 
consulted my noble generous patron ; but after 
acting the part of an honest man, and supporting 
my family, my whole wishes and views are direct- 
ed to poetic pursuits. I am aware, that though 
1 were to give performances to the world superi- 
or to iiiy former works, still, if they were of the 
same kind with those, the comparative reception 
they V ould meet with would mortify me. I have 
turned my thoughts on tha drama. I do not mean 
the stately buskin of the tragic muse. 



Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh 
theatre would be more amused with afiectation, 
folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than man- 
ners wbicii by fai' the greatest part of the audi- 
ence can only know at second hand ? 
I have the honour to be 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 

And grateful humble servant. 



No. LVII. 

To THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

■\Viih a Copy of " Bruce's Address to his Troops 
at Bannockburn." 

Dumfries, 12th Jan. 1794. 
:ily lord, 

Will your lordship allow me to present you with 
tlie inclosed little coniposifion of mine, as a siiiall 
tribute of gratitude for that acquaintance wiili 
which you have beenpl; ased to honour me? Inde- 
pendent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have' 
rarely met with any thing in history whicli inte- 
rests my feelings as a nnui, equal with the story 
of Bannockburn. On the one liand, a cruel, but 
able usurper, leading on the finest army in Eu- 
A a a 



370 



RELIQUES. 



rope to extinguisli the last spavk of freedom 
among a greatly-daring, and greatly-injured peo- 
ple ; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a 
gallant nation, devoting themselves to i-escue their 
bleeding counti-y, or perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed in- 
valuable !— for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought 1 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. LVIII. 
To THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

My lord, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the bot- 
tom of this letter, and on the title-page of the 
book I do myself the honour to send your lord- 
ship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity 
tells me, that it must be a name not entirely un- 
known to you. The generous pati-onage of your 
late illustrious brother found me in the lowest ob- 
scurity : he introduced my rustic muse to the par- 
tiality of my country ; and to him I owe all. My 
sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul 
at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I 
have endeavoured to express in a poem to his me- 
moi*y, which I have now published. This edition 
is j ust from the press ; and in my gratitude to tiie 
dead, and my respect for the living (fame belies 
you, my lord, if you possess not the same dignity 
of man, v.hich was your noble brother's charac- 
teristic feature), I had destined a copy for the eai'l 
of Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : allow me to jiresent it you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal conta- 
gion which pervades the world of letters, that pro- 
fessions of respect from an author, particularly 
from a poet, to a loid, are moie than suspicious. 
I claim my by-past conduct, and my feelings at 
this moment, as exceptions to the too just conclu- 
sion. Exalted as are the honours of your lord- 
ship's name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of 
mine ; with the uprightness of an honest man, I 
come before your lordship, with an offering, how- 
ever humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grate- 
ful respect ; and to beg of you, my lord,— 'tis all I 
have to ask of you, that you will do me the ho- 
nour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, &c.* 



No. LIX. 

To Dr. ANDERSON. 

air, 

I am much indebted to my worthy friend Dr. 
Blacklock for introducing me to a gentleman of 
Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; but when you do me the 
honourto ask my assistance in your purposed pub. 
lication, alas, sir ! you might as well think to cheap 



en a little honesty at the sign of an advocate's \ng, 
or humility under the Geneva band. I am a mi- 
serable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the 
friction of holding the noses of tbe poor publicans 
to the grindstone of excise ; and like Milton's Sa- 
tan, for private reasons, am forced 

" To do what yettho' damned I would abhor ;"'' 

and except a couplet or two o*f honest execration 



No. LX. 
To Mrs. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douglas, 2Sth June, 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I 
set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. 
Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's fa- 
voui'ite idea of I'eclaiming sinners ; so let me con- 
sider by what fatality it happens that I have so 
long been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the cor- 
respondence of the most valued friend I have on 
earth. To tell yon that I have been in poor health, 
will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I 
am afraid I am about to suffer for the follies of 
my youth. My medical friends threaten me with 
a flying gout ; but I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your ci-itical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been 
framing as I paced along the road. The subject 
is liberty. You know, my honoured friend, how 
dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregular 
ode for General Washington's biith-day. After 
having mentioned the degeneracy of other king- 
doms, I come to Scotland thus : 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I tui'n with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with tbe mighty dead .' 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence weep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath.— 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immoi-tal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing. 
That arm, which, nerved w ith thundering fate. 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring .' 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 

You will probably have another scrawl from me 
in a stage or two. 

No. LXL 



* The original letter is in the possession of the 
honourable Mrs. Holland, of Poynings. From a 
memorandum, on the back of the letter, it appears 
to have been written in May, 1794. 



To Mr. JAMES JOHNSON. 

My dear friend, 

You should have heard from me long ago ; but 
over and above some vexatious share in the pecu- 



RELiqUES. 



371 



uiaiy losses oftliese accursed times, I have all this 
winter been plagued with low spii-its and blue de- 
vils, so that / have almost huiii; my harp on the 
xuiUoiv trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition of 
my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, 
finds me in full employment*. 

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one 
songs for your fifth volume ; if we cannot finish 
it in any other way, wliat would you think of Scots 
words to some beautiful Ii'ish airs ? In the mean 
time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum 
to my worthy friend Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to 
bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly 
as he did the laird of Glenriddel'st, that I may in- 
sert every anecdote I can learn, together with my 
own criticisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy 
of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to 
publish at some after period, by way of making 
the Miiseuni a book famous to the end of time, and 
you renowned for ever. 

I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have 
great veneration ; as it once was the dirk of lord 
Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who stripped 
it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and 
fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your 
care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Bal- 
lad.— Our friend Clarke has done indeed well ! 'tis 
chaste and beautiful. 1 have not met with any 
tiling that has pleased nie so much. You know, I 
am no connoisseur ; but that I am an amateur 
—will be allow ed me. 



To Miss FONTENELLE, 

Accompanying a Trologue to be spoken for her 

Benefit. 
Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add to 
the scanty sum of our pleasures, are positively our 
benefactors. To 3 ou, madam, on our humble Dum- 
fries boards, I have boeii more indebted for enter- 
tainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. 
Your charms, as a woman, would insure applause 
to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical 
talents would insure admiration to the plainest fi- 
gure. This, madam, is not the unmeaning, or in- 
sidious complimejit of the frivolous or interest- 
ed ; I pay it from the same honest impulse that 
the sublime of nature excites my admiration, or 
her beauties, give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service to you 
on your approaching benefit night? If they will, 

* Bui-ns's anxiety with regard to the correctness 
of his writings was very great. Being questioned 
as to his mode of composition, he replied, " All 
my poetry is the effect of easy composition, but of 
laborious correction.'^'' 

t Tliis is the manuscript book, containing the re- 
marks on Scottish songs and ballads, presented to 
the public, with considerable additions, in this vo- 
lume. 



I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. Tliey 
are nearly extempore : I know they have no great 
merit ; but though they should add but little to 
the entertainment of the evening, they give me 
the happiness of an opportunity to declare how 
much 1 have the honour to be, &c. 



No. LXIII. 

To PETER MILLER, Jun. Esq.* of Dalswinton. 

Dumfries, Nov. 1794. 
Dear sir. 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sin- 
cerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pi-esent 
situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You 
well know my political sentiments; and were I 
an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and 
family of children, with the most ft'rvid enthusi- 
asm I would have volunteered my services : I then 
could and would have despised all consequences 
that might have ensued. 

]My prospect in the excise is something ; at least, 
it is, incumbered as I am with the welfare, the ve- 
ry existence, of near half-a-score of helpless indi- 
viduals, what I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time they are most welcome to my 
ode ; only, let tliem insert it as a thing they have 
met with by accident and unknown to me.— Nay, 
if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character 
of him, I cannot doubt ; if he will give me an ad- 
dress and channel by which any thing will come 
fafe from tliose spies with which he may be cer- 
tain that his correspondence is beset, I will now 
and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. 
In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news 
and politics will be regarded ; but against the days 
of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assis- 
tance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a 
newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try 
my hand in the way of little piose essays, which 
I propose sending into the world through the me- 
dium of some newspaper; and should these be 
worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be wel- 
come ; and all my reward shall be, his treating 
me with his paper, which, by the bye, to any body 
who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat 
iud(;ed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am evei-j 
Dear sir, &c. 



* In a conversation with his friend Mr. Perry, 
(the proprietor of " The Morning Chronicle,") 
Mr. Miller represented to that gentleman the in- 
snfliciency of Burns's salary to answer the impe- 
rious demands of a numerous family. In their 
sympathy for his misfortunes, and in their regret 
that his talents were nearly lost to the world of 
letters, these gentlemen agreed on the plan of set- 
tling him in London. 

To accomplish this most desirable object, Mr. 
Perry, very spiritedly, made the poet a handsome 
offer of an annual stipend for the exercise of his 
talents in his newspaper. Burns's reasons for re* 
fusing this offer are stated in the present letter. 

E. 



372 



RELIQUES. 



No. LXIV. 
To GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

My dear sir. Dumfries. 

It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that I 
congratulate you on the return of " days of ease, 
and nights of pleasure," after the horrid hours of 
misery, in vhich I saw you suffering existence 
when I was last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for 
any body. " I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched 
ill o't." But most fervently do I beseech the 
great Director of this world, that you may live 
long and be happy, but that "you may live no lon- 
ger than while you are happy. It is needless for 
me to advise you to have a I'everend care of ) our 
health. I know you will make it a point never, at 
one time, to drink more than a pint of wine ; (I 
mean an English pint ;) and that you will never be 
witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time ; 
and that cold drams you will never more taste. I 
am well convinced too. that after drinking, per- 
haps boiling punch, you will never mount your 
horse and gallop home in a chill, late hour.— 
Above all things, as I understand" you are now in 
habits of intimacy with xhdit Boanerges of gospel 
powers, father Auld*, be eai'nest with liim that 

* The Revd. IVm. Auld, the then minister of 
Mauchline. This man was of a morose and mali- 
cious disposition ; he had quarrelled with T>Ir. Ga- 
vin Hamilton's father, and sought every occasion 
of revenging himself on the son. Burns dearly 
loved Gavin Hamilton, and could not view this 
conduct with indifference : besides, father Auld 
in his religious tenets w as highly Calvinistic, deal- 
ipg damnation around him with no sparing hand. 
He was also superstitious and bigotted in the ex- 
treme .-—excellent marks for the poet I The fol- 
lowing specimens of father Aiild will shew his de- 
sii'c to provoke and ii-ritate Mr. Hamilton, and are 
a full display of the liberality of his sentiments in 
matters of religion. 

He unwarrantably refused to christen Mr. Hamil- 
ton's child for the following reasons .-—that Mr. 
Hamilton rode on Sundays— that he had ordered a 
person to dig a few potatoes in his garden on the 
Sabbath-day, (for which he was cited before the 
kirk !) He also charged him with dining in a public 
house on a king''s fast' day, with two gentlemen, 
and that they were even heard to whistle and sing 
after dinner.— Moreover, which was the heaviest 
and most awful charge of all— the, Mr. Auld, heard 
Gavin Hamilton say, " D-mn it,''^ in his own 
presence ! 

All this idle and vexatious folly tended, as might 
be expected, to alienate the mind of Mr. Hamil- 
ton, both from the parson and his pulpit. Father 
Auld and his adherents charged him with neglect 
of religion and disrespect for its professors. The 
poet took Itis friend and patron's pai-t, and i-epcl- 
led the attack by extolling Mr. Hamilton's eleva- 
tion of scntiraent, his readiness to forgive injuries, 
and, above all, his universal active benevolence. 
These excellent qualities Burns opposed to the 
fierceness, fonaticism, and monkish gloom of this 
class of priests. His sentiments on the subject are 



he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may 
see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even 
practising the carnal moral works of charity, hu- 
manity, generosity, ajid forgiveness ; things which 
you practised so flagrantly, that it was evident you 
delighted in them ; neglecting, or perhaps pro- 
fanely despising the 71'holesome doctrine of "Faitll 
without works, the only anchor of salvation." 

A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, 
be highly becoming for you at present ; and in 
my zeal for your well-being I earnestly press it 
on you to be diligent in chanting over the two in- 
closed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compli- 
ments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 
Yours in the L— d, 

R. B. 



No. LXV. 

To Mr. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jun. Dumfries. 

Sunday Morning. 
Dear sir, 

I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober 

this morning, From the expressions Capt. — 

made use of to me, had I had nobody's welfare to 
care for but my own, we should certainly have 
come, according to the manners of the world, to the 
necessity of murdering one another about the bu- 
siness. The words were such as, generally, I be- 
lieve, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleas- 
ed to think that I did not ruin the peace and wel- 
fare of a wife and a family of children in a drunk- 
en squabble. Further, you know that the report 
of certain political opinions being mine, has alrea- 
dy once before brought me to the brink of destruc- 
tion. I dread lest last night's business may be 
misrepresented in the same way. — You, I beg, will 
take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mr. 
Burns's welfare with the task of waiting, as soon 
as possible, on every gentleman who was present, 
and state this to him, and, as you please, shew him 
this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious 
toast ? " May our success in the present war be 
equal to the justice of our cause."— A toast that 
the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot ob- 
ject to. I request and beg that this morning you 
will wait on the parties present at the foolish dis- 
pute. 1 shall only add, that I am truly sori-y that 
a man who stood so high in my estunation as Mr. 

, should use me in the manner in which 

I conceive he ha> done*. 

given in this letter with infinite address, and in a 
strain of sly. covert humour that he has seldom sur- 
passed. He is equally sly, but mere explicit in his 
poetical dedication of his woi'ks to Gavin Hamil- 
ton—In a copy, in the poet's writing, that J have 
seen, the circumstance of riding on the Sabbath- 
day is thus neatly introduced : 

" He sometimes gallot)s on a Sunday, 
An' pricks the beast as it were Monday." 

E. 
* At this period of our poet's life, when politi- 
cal aiximosity was. made the ground of private 



RELiqUES. 



3:3 



No. LXVI. 

To Mr. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 

Supervisor of Excise, Dumfries. 
Sir, 

Inclosed are the two schemes. I would not have 
troubled you with the collector's one, but for sus- 
picion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine promised 
me to make it right, if you will have the goodness 
to shew him how. As I have no copy of the scheme 
for myself, and the alterations being very consider- 
able from what it was foi*merly, I hope that I shall 
have access to this scheme I send you, when I 
come to face up my new books. So much for 
schcjnes.—AnA that no scheme to betray a friend, or 
mislead a stranger ; to seduce a young girl, or rob 
a hen-roost ; to subvert liberty, or bribe an excise- 
maii ; to disturb the general assembly, or annoy 
a gossipping ; to overthrow the credit of ortho- 
doxy, or the authority of old songs ; to oppose 
your ivishes, or frustrate my hopes — may prosper 
—is the sincere wish and prayer of 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVII. 

TO THE EDITORS 

OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE*. 

Dumfries. 
Gentlemen, 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that I have 
now been about nine months one of that number. 

quarrel, the following foolish verses were sent as 
an attack on Burns and his friends for their poli- 
tical opinions. Thej' were written by some mem- 
ber of a club, styling themselves the Loyal Na- 
tives of Dumfries, or rather by the united genius 
of that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or 
poetical talent. The verses were handed over the 
table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he in- 
stantlj' indorsed the subjoined reply. 

The Loyal Natives^ Verses. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 

throng, 
With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the 

quack. 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 

Burns — extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproai- and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 
But where is your shield from the darts of con- 
tempt ? 



cir- 



* This letter owes its origin to the following ci 
cumstance. A neighbour of the poet's at Dnm- 



I am sorry to inform yoH, that in that time, se- 
ven or eight of your papers either have never been 
sent me, or else have never reached me. To be de- 
prived of any one number of the "first newspaper 
in Great Britain for iuformation, ability, and in- 
dependence, is what I can ill brook and bear ; but 
to be deprived of the most admirable oration of 
the marquis of Lansdowne, when he made the 
great, though ineffectual attempt (in the language 
of the poet, I fear too true) " to save a sinking 
stale'^' — this was a loss which I neither can, nor 
will forgive you.— That paper, gentlemen, never 
reached me ; but I demand it of you. I am a Bri- 
ton ; and must be interested in the cause of liber- 
ty : — I am a tnan ; and the rights of human nature 
cannot be inditi'erelit to me. However, do not let 
me mislead you: I am not a man in that situation 
of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of any con- 
sequence to you, in the eyes of those to whom si- 
tuation of life alone is the criterion of ma7i.—I am 
but a plain tradesman, in this distant, obscure 
country town : but that liumble domicile in which 
I shelter my wife and children, is tlie castellum of 
a Briton ; and that scanty hard-earned income 
which supports them, is as truly my property, as 
the most magnificent fortune of the most puissant 
member of your house of nobles. 

These, gentlemen, are r.iy sentiments ; and to 
these I subscribe my name : and were I a man of 
ability and consequence enough to address the 
public, with tliat name shoukl tliey appear. 
I am, &c. 



No. LXVIII. 
To COL. W. DUNBAR. 

I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, 
but am still here in tliis sublunary world, serving 
my God by pi'opagating his image, and honouring 
my king by begetting him loyal subjects. Many 
happy returnsof the season aw ait my friend .' May 
the thorns of care never beset his path .' May 
peace be an inmate of his bosom, and rapture a 
frequent visitor of his soul ! May the biood-hounds 
of misfortune never trace his steps, nor the screech- 
fries, called on him and complained that he w as 
greatly disappointed in the irregular delivery of 
the paper of The Morning Chronicle. Burns ask- 
ed, " Why do you not write to the editots of the 
paper?" Good God, sir, can /presume to write to 
the learned editors of a newspaper ?— Weil, if you 
are afraid of writing to the editor of a newspaper, 
/ am not ; and if } ou think proper, I"ll draw up 
a sketch of a letter, which you may copy. 

Burns tore a leaf from his excise book, and in- 
stantly produced the sketch which I have tran- 
scribed, and wliicJi is Jare printed. The poor man. 
thanked him, and took ihe Utti-r home. However, 
that caution which the watchfulness of his ene- 
mies had taught hi i to exercise, i)rompted him to 
the prudence of begging a frierid to wait on tht^ 
pei-son for whom it was written, and request the 
favour to have it returned. This request was eoni- 
plied with, and tlie p.ijivr ncx r ajipcarcd in print. 

E. 



374 



KELIQUES. 



owl of sorrow alarm his dwtHing! May enjoyment 
tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou 
friend of the bard .' Blessed be lie that blesseth 
thee, and curssed be he that curseth thee. 



the good offices of a genilemau of your public 
character and political consequence might bring 
me forward, I shall petition your goodness with 
the same frankness as I now do myself the honour 
to subscribe myself, &c.* 



No. LXIX. 

To Mr. HERON, of Heron. 
Sir, 

I inclose you some copies of a couple of politi- 
cal ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have ne- 
ver seen. Would to Heaven I could make you 
master of as many votes in the Stewartry. But— 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
" Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect upon the foe, I have privately 
printed a good many copies of both ballads, ajid 
have sent them among friends all about the 
country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of 
character, the utter dereliction of all principle, in 
a profligate junto, which has not only outraged 
virtue, but violated common decency ; which, 
spuming even hypocrisy as paltry iniquity below 
their t-aring ;— to unmask their flagitiousness to the 
broadest day— 1(\ deliver such over to their merited 
fate, is .surely not merely innocent, but laudable ; 
is not only propriety, but virtue.— You have alrea- 
dy, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of man- 
kind on the heads of your opponents ; and I swear 
by ilie lyre of Thalia to muster ©n your side all 
the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid 
ridicule. 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. 
Syr.je shewed me. At present, my situation in life 
viv>t be in a great measure stationary, at least for 
two <)t three years. The statement is this— I am 
©n t':ij supervisors' list, and as we come on there 
by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at 
the head of that list, and be appointed, of course. 
Then, a friend might be of service to me in get- 
ting me into a place of the kingdom which I would 
like. A superrisor's incom.e Aaries from about 
one hundred and twenty, to two hundred a year ; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would 
be nearly a complete bar to every species of lite- 
rary pursuit. The moment I am appointed super- 
visor, in the common routuie, I may be nominated 
on the collector's list ; and this is always a busi- 
ness purely of political patronage. A collector- 
ship varies much, from better than two hundred a 
a year to near a thousand. They also come for- 
ward by precedency on the list ; and have, besides 
a handsome income, a hfe of complete leisure. A 
life of literary leisure, with a decent competence, 
is the summit of jny wishes. It would be the pru- 
dish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I 
do not need, or would not be indebted to a politi- 
cal friend ; at the same time, sir, I by no means 
lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my depen- 
dant situation on your benevolence. If, in my 
progress of life, an opening should occur whefe 



No. LXX. 

ADDRESS 

Of 

THE SCOTS DISTILLERS, 

To 

THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 
Sir, 

While pursy burgesses crowd yoiir gate, sweat- 
ing under the weight of heavy addresses, permit 
us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great 
Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with 
venal approbation, but with fraternal condolence ; 
not as what you are just now, or for some time 
have been, but as what, in all probability, you will 
shortly be.— We shall have the merit of not desert- 
ing our friends in the day of their calamity, and 
you will have the satisfaction of perusing at least 
one honest addi'ess. You are well acquainted with 
the dissection of human nature ; nor do you need 
the assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to in- 
form you, that man is always a selfish, often a per- 
fidious being.— This assertion, however the hasty 
conclusions of superficial observation may doilbt 
of it, or the raw inexperience of youth inay deny 
it, those who make the fatal experiment we have 
done, will feel. — You are a statesman, and conse- 
quently are not ignorant of the traffic of these 
corporation compliments. — The little great man 
who drives the borough to market, and the very 
great man who buys the borough in that market, 
they two do the whole business ; and you well 
know, they, likewise, have their price.— With that 
sullen disdain which you can so well assume, rise, 
illustrious sir, and spurn these lareling efforts of 
venal stupidity. At best they are the compliments 
of a man's friends on the morning of his execu- 
tion ; they take a decent farewel ; resign you to 
your fate ; and hurry away from your apjjroaching 
hour. 

If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where tlie sun of gladness gilds the 
path of prosperous men ; permit us, great sir, with 
the sympathy of fellow-feeling, to hail your pas- 
sage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the selfish- 
ness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial ; but 
to point out to a child of misfortune those who are 
still more unhappj , is to give them some degree of 
positive enjoyment. In this light, sir, our down- 
fal may be again of use to you : — though not ex- 
actly ill the same way, it is not perhaps the first 

* Part of this letter appears in Cenei'ttl Cor res' 
Jjoiulcrice, No. CXLII. 



RELIQUES. 



3-5 



lime it has gratified your feelings. It is true, the 
triumph of yowr evil star is exceedingly despite- 
ful.— At an age when others are the votaries of 
pleasure, or underlings in business, you had at- 
tained the highest wish of a British statesman ; 
and with the ordinai-y date of human life, what a 
prospect was before you ! Deeply rooted in rotj- 
al favour, you overshadowed the laud. The birds 
of passage, which follow ministerial sunshine 
through every clime of political faith and man- 
ners, flocked to your branches ; and the beasts of 
the field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) 
crowded under your shade. " But behold a watch- 
er, a holy one came down from the heaven, and cri- 
ed aloud, and said thus : hew dow n the tree, and cut 
off his branches ; shake off his leaves, and scatter 
his fruit; let the beasts get away from under it, 
and the fowls from his branches !" A blow from 
an unthouglit-of quarter, one of those terrible ac- 
cidents which peculiarly mark the hand of Omni- 
potence, overset your career, and laid all your 
fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, 
sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate,— An ancient 
nation, that, for many ages, had gallantly inaintain- 
ed the i^iequal struggle for independence with her 
much more powerful neighbour, at last agrees to 
a union which should ever after make them one 
people. In consideration of certain circumstances, 
it was covenanted that the former should enjoy a 
stipulated alleviation in her share of the public 
burdens, particularly in that branch of the revenue 
called the excise. This just privilege has of late gi- 
ven great umbrage to some interested, i)Owerful in- 
dividuals of the more potent part of the empire, and 
they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious 
pretexts, to subvert what they dared not openly at- 
tack, from the dread which they yet entertained 
of the spirit of their ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did Ave alone 
suffer ; our country was deeply wounded. A num- 
ber of (we will say) respectable individuals, large- 
ly engaged in trade, wliere we were not only use- 
ful but absolutely necessary to our country in her 
dearest interests ; we, with all t!iat was near and 
dear to us, were saci-ificed without remorse, to the 
infernal deit>- of political expediency ! We fell to 
gratify the wishes of dark envy, and the views of 
unprincipled ambition i Your foes, sir, were avow- 
ed; were too brave to take an ungenerous advan- 
tage ; you fell in the face of day. On the con- 
trary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, 
contrived to make their guilt appear the villainy 
of a nation. Your downfall only di'ags with you 
your private friends and partisans : in our misery 
are more or less involved the most numerous, and 
most valuable j)art of the community — all those 
who immediately depend on the cultivation of the 
soil, from the laixllord of a province, down to his 
losvest hind. 

Allow us, sir, yet farther, just to hint at another 
rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions of ad- 
versity ;— the gratification of an approving con- 
science. In a certain great assembly, of which you 
are a distinguished member, panegyrics on your 
private virtties have so often wounded your deli- 
cacy, that we shall not distress you with any thing 
on the subject. There is, however, one j)aBt of 
vour public conduct which our f<-irnit;-s v ill not 



permit us to pass in silence ; our gratitude must 
trespass on j our modesty : we mean, worthy sir, 
your whole behaviour to the Scots distillers. In 
evil hours, when obtrusive recollection presses bit- 
terly on the sense, let that, sir, come like a heal- 
ing angel, and speak the peace to your soul 
w hich the world can neither give nor take away. 
We have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Your sympathising fellow-sufferers. 
And grateful humble servants, 

JOHN BARLEYCORN— Prases. 



No. LXXI. 

To the Hon. the PROVOST, BAILIES, and 
TOWN COUNCIL of Dumfries. 

Gentlemen, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very great 
object for a parent to have liis cliildren educated 
in them. Still, to me, a stranger, w ith my large fa- 
mily, and very stinted income, to give my young 
ones that education I wish, at the high school-fees 
which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the ho- 
nour of making me an honorary burgess. — Will 
you allow me to ix-quest that this mark of distinc- 
tion may extend so far. as to put me on the foot- 
ing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools ? 

If you are so very kind as to grant my request*, 
it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to 
strain every nerve wliere 1 can officially serve you ; 
and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect 
witii whith I liave the honour to be, 
Gcntlenun, 

A'our di voted hnnsble sf-vvant. 



No. LXXIL 

To Mr. JAMES JOHNSON, Edinburgh. 

Dwafries, Juhj 4, 1796. 
How arc yon, my dear friend, aiid how comes 
on your fif;h \nlume? You may probably thiilk 
that for some time past I have neglected >ou and 
your work ; but, alas .' the hand of pain, and sor- 
row, and care, has these many months lain heavy 
on me .' Personal and domestic affliction have al- 
most entinly banished that alacrity and life with 
w hich I used to w oo the rural muse of Scotia. 



* This request was immediately complied w ith. 

I am happy to have an opportunity of mention- 
ing, with great respect. Mr. JuDU'.i Crnij. At the 
time of the poet's death, this gentleman was ree- 
'tor of the Grannnar School of Dumfries, and is 
now one of the masters of the High School of 
Edinburgh. He has uniformly exerted himself in 
the most benevolent manner, in the efiueaiion and 
welfare or 1 1.,' I..., t-.s., in. P. 



•iHf'" 



376 



RELiqUES. 



You aro u gooil, worthy, honest fellow, and have 
a good I'lght to live in this world — because you de- 
serve it. Many a merry meeting this publication 
has given us, and possibly it may give us more, 
though, alas ! I fear it. This protracting, slow, 
consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I 
doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest ray sun 
before he has well reached liis middle career, and 
will turn over the poet to far other and more im- 
portant concerns than studyisig the brilliancy of 
wit, or the pathos of sentiment ] However, hope is 
the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to 
cherish it as well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. — 
Your work is a great one ; and now that it is near 
finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or 
three things that might be mended ; yet I will 
venture to prophecy, that to future ages your pub- 
lication will be the text book and standard of Scot- 
tish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, be- 
cause you have been so very good already ; but my 



wife "has a very particular friend of hers, a j'Onng 
lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to pre- 
sent the Scots Miuical Museum*. If you have a 
spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it 
by the very first Jly, as I am anxious to have it 
soon ? 

Yours, ever, 

ROBERT BURNS. 

* In this humble and delicate manner did poor 
Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was 
principally the founder, and to which he had con- 
tributed, gratuitovsly, not less tlian 184 original, 
altered, arid collected songs ! The editor )ias seen 
180 transcribed by his own hand, for the Museum. 

This letter was written on the 4th of July, — the 
poet died on the 21st. No other letters of this in- 
teresting period have been discovered, except one 
addressed to Mrs. Dunlop, of the 12th of July, 
which Dr. Currie very properly supposes to bethv- 
last production of the dying bard. E, 



STRICTURES 

ON 

SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS, 

ANCIENT AND MODERN: 



ANECDOTES OF THEIR AUTHORS. 



" There needs na' be so great a phrase 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
I wad na gie our ain strathspeys 

For half a hundred score o' em : 
They're dowff and dowie at the best, 
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie ; 
They're douff and dowie at the best, 

Wi' a' their variorum : 
They're douff and dowie at the best, 
Their allegros, and a' the rest, 
They cannot please a Scottish taste, 

Compar'd wi' TuUochgorum." 

Rev, John Skmiier. 



Bbb 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The chief part of the following remarks on 
Scottish songs and ballads exist in the hand-writ- 
ing of Robert Burns, in an interleaved copy, in 
four volumes, octavo, of " Johnson's Scots Musical 
Museum.''^ They were M'ritten by the poet for 
captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, whose autograph 



the volumes bear. These valuable volumes were 
left by 3Irs. Riddel, to her niece, miss Eliza Bay- 
ley, of Manchester, by whose kindness the editor 
is enabled to give to the public transcripts of this 
amusing and miscellaneous collection. 



STRICTURES, &c. 



The Highland ^iieen. 

The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sol- 
bay man of war.—This I had from Dr. Bhick- 
lock. 



Bess the Gaivki 



The Beds of szveet Roses. 

This song, as far as I know, for the first time 
ajipears here in print. When I was a boy, it was 
a very popular song in Ayrshire. I remembe? to 
have lieard those fanatics, the Buchanites*, sing 
some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dig- 
nify with the name of hymns, to this airt. 



This song shows that the Sf ottish muses did not 
all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald*, 
as I have good reason to believe tliat the verses 
and music are both posterior to the days of these 
two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and is in the 
genuine Scots taste. We liave few pastoral com- 
positions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are 
equal to this. 



Oh, open the Door, Lard Gregory. 

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- 
frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dunifries- 
shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, 
from the title, &:c. can be guess<d to belong to, or 
. be the production of these counties. This, I con- 
jecture, is oiie of these few ; as the ballad, which 
is a long one, is called, both by tradition and print- 
ed collections, " The Lass o' Lochroyan," which 
I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. 



The Banks of the Tweed. 

TJiis song is one of the many attempts that 
English composers have made to imitate the Scot- 
tish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, 
beg leave to distinguish by the appellation of An- 
glo-Scottish productions. The music is pretty 
good, but the verses are just above contempt. 



* Oswald was a music-seller in London, about 
the year 1750. He published a large collection of 
Scottish tunes, which he called the Caledonian 
Pocket Companion. Mr. Tytler observes, that 
his genius in composition, joined to his taste in 
the performance of Scottish music, was natural 
and pathetic. Ritson. 



RosUn Castle* 

These beautiful verses were the production of a 
Richard Hewitt, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, 
to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for 
some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who 
is the author of the second song to the tune. 1 yt- 
ler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives 
the air to Oswald ; but in Oswald's own collection 
of Scots tunes, whei-e he affixes an asterisk to those 
he himself composed, he does not make the least 
claim to the tune. 



Saw ye Johnnie coinmin ■ quo^ she. 

This song, for genuine humour in the verses, 
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I 
take it to be vei-j old. 

* A set of itinerant fanatics in the west of Scot- 
land, so denominated from their leader, Mrs. Bu- 
chan. 

t Shakspeare, in his Winter's Tale, speaks of a 
puritan, who " sings psalms to hornpipes.'''' 

X Richard Hewit, Ritson observes, was taken 
when a boy, during the residence of Dr. Black- 
lock in Cumberland, to lead him. He addressed 
a copy of verses to the doctor on quitting his ser- 
vice. — Among the verses are the following lines : 

" How oft these plains I've thoughtless prest ; 
Whistled or sung some fair distrest. 
When fate would steal a tear." 

" Alluding," as it is said in a note, " to a sort 
of narrative songs, which make no inconsiderable 
part of the innocent amusements with which the 
country people pass the wintry nights, and of which 
the author of the present piece was a faithful re- 
hearser," — Blarklork's Pocins, 1756. Svo. p. S. 



380 



RELIQUES. 



Clout the Caldron. 



A tradition is mentioned in the Bee, that the 
second bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, 
that if he were going to be hanged, nothii^g woukl 
soothe his mind so much by the way, as to hear 
Clout the Caldron played. 

I have met with anotlier tradition, that the old 
song to this tune 

" Hae j'e ony pots or pans^ 
Or onie broken chanlers," 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itine- 
rant tinker. The air is also known by the name 
of 

" The blacksmith and his apron," 

which, from the rhythm, seems to have been a line 
of some old song to the tune. 



Saxv ye my Peggy. 

This charming song is much older, and indeed 
superior to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," as he 
calls them. There is another set of the words, much 
older still, and which I take to be the original one. 
But though it has a very great deal of merit, it is 
not quite ladies' reading. 

The original woi'ds, for they can scarcely be 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fami- 
liar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 

Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 

Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she. 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she. 

Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your Maggie 

That ane may ken her be ? (by) 

Though it by no means follows that the silliest 
verses to an air must, for that reason, be the ori- 
ginal song ; yet I take this ballad, of which I have 
quoted part, to be the old verses. The two songs in 
Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never 
. to be met with in the fire-side circle of our pea- 
santry ; while that which I take to be the old song, 
is in every shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, 
had thought the old verses unworthy a place in his 
collection. 



has no manner of connexion with the present 
verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of 
words, of wliich the title is all that remains. 

By the bye, it is singular enough that the Scot- 
tish muses were all Jacobites. I have paid move 
attention to every description of Scots songs than 
perhaps any body living has done, and I do not re- 
collect one single stanza, or even the title of ilie 
most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegy- 
rical reference to the families of Nassau or Bruns- 
wick ; while there are hundreds satirizing them. 
This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots 
poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would 
always take it as a compliment to have it said, that 
my heart ran before my head.— And surely the gal- 
lant, though unfortunate house of Stewart, the 
kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a 
theme ******* 



Jamie Gay. 

Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo- 
Scottish piece. 



My dear Jockie. 
Another Anglo-Scottish production. 

Fye, gae rub her o''er wp Strae. 

It is self-evident that the first four lines of this 
song are part of a song more ancient than Ram- 
say's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. 
As music is the language of nature ; and poetry, 
particularly songs, are always less or more localiz- 
ed (if I may be allowed the vei-b) by some of the 
modifications of time and place, this is the reason 
why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their 
original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of 
verses ; except a single name, or pln-ase, or some- 
times one or two lines, simply to distinguish the 
tunes by. 

To this day, among people who know nothing 
of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and 
all the song that ever I heard :— 

Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 

Gie her a kiss and let her gae ; 
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 



The Flowers of Edinburgh. 

^ This song is one of the many effusions of Scots 
•jacobitism.— The title, " Flowers of Edinburgh," 



The Lass o' Liviston. 

The old song in three eight line stanzas, is well 
known, and has merit as to wit and humour ; but 
it is rather unfit for insertion. — It begins, 



RELIQUES. 



381 



The bonnie lass o' LIviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 
And she has written in her contract. 

To He her lane, to lie her lane. 
&c. &c. 



They tak the horse then by te head, 
And tere tey mak her stan', man ', 

Me tell tem, me hae seen te day, 
Tey no had sic comman', man. 



T/ie last Time I came o'er the Moor. 

Ramsay foimd the first line of this song, which 
liad been preserved as the title of the charming 
air, and then composed the rest of the verses to 
suit that line. This has always a finer eflrect than 
composing English words, or words with aii idea 
foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old 
titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will gene- 
rally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air. 



Jockie^s Gray Brecks, 

Though this has certainly every evidence of be- 
ing a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune 
and song in the north of Ireland, called The IVcn- 
ver and his Shuttle 0, which, though sung much 
quicker, is every note the very tune. 



The Happy Marriage. 
Another, but very pretty, Anglo-Scottish pi"ce. 

The Lass of Peatifs Mill. 

In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 
this song is localized (a verb I must use for want 
of anotlier to express my idea) somewhere in the 
north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayr- 
shire. The following anecdote I had from the 
present sir William Cunningham of Robertland, 
who had it fi-om the last John, earl of Loudon. — 
The then earl of Loudon, and father to earl John 
before mentioned, hud Ramsay at Loudon, and one 
day walking together by the banks of livine wa- 
ter, near New-]\Iills, at a place jet called Peaty's 
Mill, they were struck with the appeai'ance of a 
beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that 
she would be a fine theme for a song. Allan lag- 
ged behind in returning to Loudon castle, and at 
dinner produced this identical song*. 



Highland Laddie. 

As this was a favourite theme with otir later 
Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs of 
that name. That which I take to be the oldest, 
is to be found in the Musical Museum, beginning, 
"I hae been at Crookie-den." One reason for my 
thinking so is, that Oswald has it in his collection 
by the name of " The auld Highland Laddie." It 
it also known by the name of " Jinglan Johnie," 
which is a well-known song of four or five stanzas, 
and seems to be an earlier song than jacobite 
times. As a proof of tliis, it is little known to the 
peasantry by the name of " Highland Laddie ;" 
while every body knows " Jinglan Jahnie." The 
song begins, 

Jinglan John, the meickle man, 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. 

Another Highland Laddie is also in the Muse- 
um, vol. v, which I take to be Ramsay's original, 
as he has borrowed the chorus — " O my bonnie 
Highland lad, &c." It consists of three stanzas, 
besides the chorus ; and has liumoiir in its compo- 
sition—it is an excellent, but somewhat liceutious 
song. It begins 

As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, 

And down amang the blooming heather, &.C. 

This air, and the common Highland Laddie, seem 
only to be different sets. 

Another Highland Laddie, also in the Museum, 
vol. V, is the ttnie of several jacobite fragments. 
One of these old songs to it, onh' exists, as Jar as f 
know, in these Auir lines — 

Whare hae ye been a' da\. 

Bonnie laddie, higlilarul laddie? 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful 
air, called, the new Highland Laddie*. 



The Gentle Sxvain. 



The Tuniimspikc. 

There is a stanza of this excellent song for lo- 
cal humour, omitted in this set, — where I have 
placed the asterismst. 

* This anecdote is somewhat differently told in 
General Correspondence, No. 19. 

t Burns has placed the asterisms between the 
9lh and lOih vorses. 



To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable 
verses, is dowmiglit * • ♦ of common sense! 
The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. 

* The following observation was fouiul in u im - 
morandum book belonging to the poet. 

The Highlanders'' prayer, at SIieriJf-Muir. 



" O L— d, be thou with us 
with us, be not against us ; 

the red i.oats and u-i .'"' 



but if thou lie nai 
hut leave it hetivi-m 



y 



3%2 



RELiqUES. 



He stole my tender Heart axvaij. 

This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no 
means a bad one. 



Fairest of the Fair. 

It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming 
song, and by the means of changing a few Eng- 
lish words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots 
song. I was not acquainted witli the editor uniil 
the first volume was neai'ly finished, else, had I 
known in time, I would have prevented such an 
impudent absurdity. 



T/ie Blaithrie o't*. 



May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen, 

Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of 
poor Cunningham the player, of whom the follow- 
ing anecdote, though told before, deserves a reci- 
tal. A fat dignitary of tlie church coming past 
Cunningham one Sunday as the poor poet was 
busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near 
Durham, his native country*, his reverence repri- 
manded Cunningham very severely for such an oc- 
cupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that 
inoffensive gentleness of manners, which was his 
peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God 
and his reverence would forgive his seeming pro- 
fanity of that sacred day, " as he had no dinner 
to eat, but ivhac lay at the bottom of that pool !''' 
This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunning- 
ham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was 
true. 



The following is a set of this song, which was 
the earliest song I remember to have got by heai't. 
When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I 
picked it up, every word, at first hearing. 

Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand. 

To sing you a song M'hich you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

I'll not sing aboiit confusion, delusion, or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot. 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to jjut on. 
We envy not the greatest that sits npon the throne ; 

1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her 

smock, 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

Tho' we hae nae horses or minzief at command. 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our 

hand ; 
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet 

in any spot. 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but 

a groat. 
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

V\l not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the 

queen ; 
'I'hey're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let 

them swim, 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it 

still remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

* " Shame fall the geer and the blad''ry </'/," is 
the tm-n of aj) old Scottish song, spoken when a 
young handsome girl marries an old man, upon 
the account of his wealth. 

Kelly's Scots Proverbs, p. 2Q6, 

t jW2//s;/V— retinue— followers. 



Tzveed-Side. 

In Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, he tells us, 
that about thirty of the songs in that publication 
were the works of some young gentlemen of his 
acquaintance ; which songs are marked with the 
letters D, C, &c.— Old Mr. Tytler, of AVoodhouse- 
lee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous 
queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, 
in the Tea-Table, were the composition of a Mr. 
Crawford, of the house of Achnamcs, who was af- 
terwards unfortunately drowned coming from 
France. As Tytler was most intimately acquaint- 
ed with Allan Ramsay^ I think the anecdote may 
be depended on. Of consequenccj the beautiful 
song of Tweed-Side is Mr. Crawford's, and indeed 
does great honour to his poetical talents. He was 
a Robert Crawford ; the Mai-y he celebrates, was 
a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk familyf, after- 
wards married to a Mr. John Ritchie. 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweed-Side, and said to have been composed by a 
lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which 
I still recollect the first.— 

When Maggy and I was acquaint, 

I cai'ried my noddle fu' hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain. 

Nor gowdspink sae happy as me ; 
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 



The Posie. 

It appears evident to me, that Oswald compos- 
ed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this air. 

* Cunningham was a native of Ireland.- See 
Dr. Anderson^' Life of Cunningham, British Po- 
ets, vol. X. {• 

t If the reader refers to the note in page 384, 
he will there find that Mr. Walter Scott states this 



RELIQUES. 



383 



In the second part of Os\\fBld's, in the three first 
bars, he has either liit on a wonderful similarity to, 
or elst: he has entirely borrowed the three first 
bars of the old air ; and the close of both tunes is 
almost exactly the same. The old verses to which 
it was sung, when I took down the notes from a 
country girl's voice, had no great merit.— The fol- 
lowing is a specimen : 

There was a pretty may* and a milkin she went ; 

Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and lier coal-black hair : 
And she has met a young man a comin o'er the 
bent, 

With a double and adieu to thee, fiiir may. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty may, 

Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ? 

Unto the yowes a milkin. kind sir, she says. 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. 



Allan IVater. 



This Allan Water, which the composer of the 
music has honoured with the name of the air, 1 
have been told, is Allan Water in Strathallan. ' 



There's nae Luck about the House. 

This is one of the most beautiful songs in the 
Scots, or any other language.-The two lines, 

" And will I see his face again ! 
And will I hear him speak I" 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled 
almost by any thing I ever heard or read : and the 
lines. 



What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain pretty may, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ? 
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she 
says. 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair may. 
&c. 8cc. 



Marrfs Dreamf. 

The Mary here alluded to, is generally supposed 
to be miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the laird of 
Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. Alexander 
Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, 
called Pompey's Ghost.-I have seen a poetical 
epistle from him in North America, where he now 
is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland. By the 
strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude 
to some love disappointment. 



The maid that tends the Goat*. 
By Mr. Dudgeon. 



This Dudgeon 
Berwickshire. 



a respectable farmer's son in 



I wish my Love 7vere in a Mire. 



" The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw"— 

are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior 
to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72 it 
came first on the sU'eets as a ballad ; and I sup- 
pose the composition of the song was not much an- 
terior to that period. 



Tarry Woo. 

This is a very pretty song; but I fancy that 
the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself are 
much older than the rest of the words. ' 



Cramachree. 

The song of Gramachree was composed by a 
Mr, Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This an- 
ecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady 
the " M<*ly," who is the subject of the song and 
to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manuscript of his 
most beautiful verses. I do not remember any 
single hue that has more true pathos than- 

" How can she break that honest heart that wears 
her in its corei" 



song 



1,7,1 ^:tr' ■" "" '™'"' °^ "■'' °" ,„f xir^' '- """ " "»- "-""'^ - "- 



song to have been written in honour of another 
lady, a miss Mary Lilias Scott. 
* M«i/— maid— young woman, 
t This is the pathetic song, beginning— 
" The moon had climb'd the highest hill. 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summit shed 

Her silver light on tow'r and tree : 
M'hen Mary laid her down to sleep. 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When soft and low a(» voice was heard, 

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me." 



The Collier''s Bonnie Lassie. 

The first half stanza is much older than the 
days of Ramsay.— The old words began thus • 

The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wonder 

bonnie .' 
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands 

and money: 
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady ; 
But she wad hae a collier, the colour o' her daddic. 



384 



HELIQUES. 



My aln kind Dearie— 0. 



The old words of tliis song ai-e omitted here, 
though much more beautiful than these inserted; 
which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, 
in one of his merry humours.— The old words be- 
gan thus : 

I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat, 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



Mary Scott, the Flower of Tarrow*. 

Mr. Itobertson, in his statistical account of the 
parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Drj- 
hope, and married into the Harden family. Her 
daughter was married to a predecessor of the pre- 
sent sir Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late 
lord Heathfield. 

Thei-e is a circiunstance in their contract of 
Marriage tliat merits attention, as it strongly 
marks the predatory spirit of the times. The fa- 
ther-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for some 
time after the marriage ; for which the son-in-law 
binds himself to give him the profits of the first 
Michaelnias-moont ! 



Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, be- 
longing to the laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. 



Blink o'er the Burn, sweet Bettie, 
The old words, all that I remember are,— 

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night ; 
It rains, it hails, it thunders, 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee 

Until it be break o' day.— 
O, Betty will bake my bread, 

And Betty will brew my ale. 
And Betty will be my love, 

When I come over the dale : 
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

Blink over the burn to me, 
And while I hae life, dear lassie, 

My ain sweet Betty thou's be.— 



The BUthsome Bridal. 

I find the Blithsome Bridal in James Watson's 
collection of Scots poems, printed at Edinburgh, in 
1706. This collection, the publisher says, is the 
first of its nature which has been published in our 
own native Scots dialect— it is now extremely 
scarce. 



Down the Burn, Davie. 

I have been informed that the tune of " Down 
the Burn, Davie," was the composition of David 

* A very interesting account of the " Flower 
of Yarrow" ajjpears in a note to Mr. Walter Scott's 
" Mar ni ion.'''' The editor has so often e^erienced 
tliat gentleman's obliging disposition, that he pre- 
sumes on liis pardon for transcribing it, 

" Near the lower extremity of St, Mary's Lake, 
(a beautiful sheet of water, forming the reservoir 
fro)n which the Yarrow takes its source,) are the 
ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of Mary 
Scott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and 
famous by the traditional name of the Flower of 
Yarrow. She was married to Walter Scott of 
Harden, no less renowned for his depredations, 
than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic ap- 
pellation was, in latter days, with equal justice, 
conferred on miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of 
the elder branch of the Harden family." Mr. Scott 
proceeds to relate that " he well remembers the 
talent and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow, 
though age had then injured the charms which 
procured her the name ; and that the words usu- 
ally sung to tlie air of " Tweed-Side," beginning, 
' What beauties does Flora disclose,' were compos- 
ed in her honour."— Notes to canto II. p. 38. 

t The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-dri- 
vers on the borders, begin their nightly depredations. 



John Hay''s Bonnie Lassie. 

John Hay's Bonnie Lassie was daughter of John 
Hay, earl or marquis of Tweeddale, and late 
countess dowager of Roxburgh.— She died at 
Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the 
years 1720 and 1740. 



The Bonnie Brucket Lassie. 

The two first lines of this song are all of it tliat 
is old. The rest of the song, as well as those 
songs in the Museum marked T, are the works of 
an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the 
name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of 
Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a bal- 
loon : a mortal, wlio, though he drudges about 
Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, 
sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as 
George-by-the-grace-of-God, and Solomon-the-son- 
of-David ; yet, that same unknown drunken mor- 
tal, is author and compiler of three-fourths of El- 
liot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which he 
composed at half a guinea a week* I 

* A short sketch of this eccentric character may 
be seen at the end of these remarks on the Scot- 
tish songs. 



heliques. 



385 



Sae merry as tve trva hae been. 

This song is beautiful.— The chorus in particu- 
lar is truly pathetic. I never could learn any 
thing of its author. 

Chorus. 

Sae merry as -we trva hae been, 

Sae merry as xve tiva hae beeri ; 
My heart it is like for to break, 

JVhen I think on the days tve hae seen. 



The Banks of Forth. 
This air is Oswald's. 



The Bush 



Traquair, 



This is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw- 
ford's composition. In the neighbourliood of Tra- 
quair, tradition still shows the old " Bush ;" which, 
•when I saw it in the year 1787, was composed of 
eight or nine ragged birches. The earl of Tra- 
quair has planted a clump of trees near by, which 
he calls " The new Bush." 



gance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of 
his love. 

" When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed 
himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at 
last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother 
with whom she lived, and who, having a family of 
thirty-one children, was probably very well pleas- 
ed to get her oft' his hands, she submitted, rather 
than consented to the ceremony ; but lliere her 
compliance ended ; and, when forcibly put into 
bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming 
out, that, after three gentle taps on the wainscot, 
at the bed head, she heard Cromlus's voice, cry- 
ing, Helen, Helen, mind me. Cromlus soon after 
coming home, the treachery of the confidant was 
discovered, — her marriage disannulled,— and Helen 
became lady Cromlecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one of the seventeen sons of Tuliybardine, and 
whose youngest son, commonly called tlie Tutor 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 year^j. 



My Dearie, if thou die. 
Another beautiful song of Crawford's. 



Cromlct^s Lilt. 

The following interesting account of this plain- 
tive dirge was coramujiicated to Mr. Riddel by 
Alexander Frazer Tytler, esq., of Woodhouselee. 

" In the latter end of the 16th century, the 
Chisolms were proprietoi"s of the estate of Crom- 
leck (now possessed by the Drummonds). The 
eldest son of that family was very much attached 
to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly 
known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch. 

" At that time the opportunities of meeting be- 
twixt the sexes were more i-are, consequently more 
sought after than now ; aiid the Scottish ladies, 
far from priding themselves on extensive litera- 
ture, were thought sufficiently book-learned, if 
they could make out the Scriptures in their mo- 
ther tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line 
of female education : at that period, the most of 
our young men^ of family sought a fortune, or 
found a grave, in France. Cromlus, when he 
went abi-oad to the war, was obliged to leave the 
management of his correspondence with his mis- 
tress, to a lay brother of the monastery of Dum- 
blain, in the immediate neighbourhood of Crom- 
leck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, 
■was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. He art- 
fully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvan- 
tage of Cromlus ; and, by misinterpreting or keep- 
ing up the letters and messages intrusted to his 
care, he entirely irritated both. All connexion 
was broken off betwixt them : Helen was incon- 
solable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the 
ballad called Croralct's Lilt, a |>voof nf the (>lo- 



She rose and let vie in. 

The oldest set of this song, which is still to bt 
found in printed colleciions, is much prettier tiian 
this ; but somebody, 1 believe it was Ramsay, 
took it into his head to clear it of some seeming 
indelicacies, and made it at once chaste and more 
dull. 



Go to the Ewe-btights*, Marion. 

I am not sure if this old and charming air be of 
the south, as is commonly said, or of the north of 
Scotland. There is a song, apparently as ancient 
as " Evve-bughts, Marion," which sings to the 
same tune, and is evidently of the north. It be- 
gins thus : 

The lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 

Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonnie castle Gordon; 

But awa to Abex-deen. 



Lewis Gordonf. 

This air is a pi'oof how one of our Scots tunes 
comes to be composed out of another. I have one 

* Sheep-folds. 

t The supposed author of Lewis Gordon wa^ a 
^rr. Gcddos. priest, at Shenval. in the Ainzie. 

R. W. 
c e 



386 



RELIQUES. 



of the earliest copies of the song, and it has pre- say composed his beautiful song of that name 



fixed, 

" Tune of Tarry Woo,"— 

of which tune, a different set has insensibly vari- 
ed into a different air. To a Scots critic, the pa- 
thos of the line, 

" Tho' his back be at the wa'," 



the Gentle Shepherd. It begins, 

O will ye speak at our town, 
As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its 
wit and humour. 



must be very striking.— It needs not a jacobite 
prejudice to be affected with this song. 



Tranent-Midr. 



Oh 



Chrio*. 



Dr. Blacklock informed me, that this song Avas 
composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. 



ni never leave thee. 

This is another of Crawford's songs, but I do 
not think in his happiest manner. What an ab- 
surdity, to join such names as Adonis and Marij 
together ! 



" Tranent-Muh'" was composed by a Mr. Skir- 
van, a very worthy respectable farmer near Had- 
dington. I have heard the anecdote often, that 
lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stan- 
za*, came to Haddington after the publication of 
the song, and sent a challenge to Skirvan to meet 
him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy- 
manner in which he had noticed him in his song, 
" Gang awa back," said the honest farmei*, " and 
tell Mr. Smith that I hae na leisure to come to 
Haddington ; but tell him to come here ; and I'll 
tak a look o' him, and if I think I'jn lit to fecht 
him, I'll fecht him ; and if no— I'll do as he did— 
ni rin aiva,''^ 



Corn Rigs are bonnie. 

All 'the old words that I ever could meet to this 
air were the following, which seem to have been 
an old chorus. 

O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

O com x-igs are bonnie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonnie lass^ 

Preen up her cockernony. 



The mucking of Geordie^s Byar, 

The chorus of this song is old ; the rest is the 
work of Balloon Tytler. 



Bide ye yet. 

There is a beautiful song to this tune, begin- 
ning, 

" Alas, my son, you little know"— 

which is the composition of miss Jenny Graham, 
of Dumfries. 



To the Weavers gin ye go. 

The chorus of this song is old, the rest of it is 
mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize for 
many silly compositions of mine in this work. 
Many beautiful airs wanted words ; in the hurry 
of other avocations, if I could string a parcel of 
rhymes together, any thing near tolerable, I was 
fain to let them pass. He must be an excellent 
poet indeed, whose every performance is excel- 
lent. 



Polrvarth on the Green. 

The author of " Polwarth on the Green," is 
captain John Drummond M'Grigor, of the family 
of Bochaldie. 



Strephon and Lydia. 

The following account of this song, I had from 
Dr. Blacklock. 

* Stanza 9. 



JVaukin e' the Fauld. 

There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
which I take to be the original song whence Ram- 

* A corruption of hone a rie\ signifying, 
" alas, for the prince, or chief." 



" And major Bowie, that worthy soul. 

Was brought down to the ground, man 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get mony a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man. 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, 

And wadna be gainsaid, man !" 



RELIQUES. 



387 



1 lie Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the 
song-, were, perliaps, the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was coniinonh known by 
the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 
" Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Mr. Ha- 
milton of Bangour's poems. Having frequently 
met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal 
attachment. M'hich their friends thought dangerous, 
as their resources were by no means adequate to 
their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad 
consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was 
sent abroad with a commission, and perished in ad- 
miral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena. 

The author of the song was William Wallace, 
esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. 



Highland lassie was a wami-hearted, charming 
young creature, as ever blessed a man with gene- 
rous love. After a pretty long tract of the most 
ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appoint- 
ment, on the second Sunday of May, in a seques- 
tered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent 
the day in taking a farewel, before she should ent- 
bark for the West-Highlands, to arrange matters 
among her friends for our projected change of 
life. At the close of autumn follow ing, she cross- 
ed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had 
scarce landed, when she was seized with a malig- 
nant fever, which hurried my^ dear girl to the 
grave in a few days, before I could even hear of 
her illness*. 



/'m oV?- young 



The chorus of this song is old 
nch as it is, is mine. 



marry yet. 

The rest of it, 



Fife, and a' the Lands about it. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as I, 
often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough, per- 
haps, but they served as a vehicle to the music. 



M-Pherson^s Farewel* 



Were na my Heart light I wad die. 



M'Pherson, a daring robber, in the beginning 
of this century, was condemned to be hanged at 
the assizes at Inverness. He is said, when under 
sentence of death, to have composed this tune, 
which he called his own lament, or farewel. 

Gow has published a variation of this fine tune 
as his own composition, which he calls, " The 
Princess Augusta." 



My Jo, Janet. 

Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish delicacy, 
refused to insert the last stanza of tins humorous 
ballad. 



The Shepherd's Con^laint. 

The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the town 
or neighbourhood of Biggar. 



The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

I composed these stanzas standing under the 
falls of Aberfeldy, at, or near, Moness. 



The Highland Lassie, 0. 

This was a composition of mine in ver>' early 
life, before I was known at all in the world. My 

* The words are Burns's— they will be foucd 
among the poems in this volume. 



Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of an- 
cient Scots poems, says, that this song was the 
composition of a lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of 
the first earl of Marchmont, and wife of George 
Baillie, of Jerviswood. 



The Toung Man's Dream. 
This song is the composition of Balloon Tytler. 

* There ai'e events in this transitory scene of 
existence, seasons of joy or of sorrow, of despair 
or of hope, which, as they powerfully affect us at 
the time, serve as epochs to the history of our 
lives. They may be termed the trials of the heart. 
We treasure them deeply in our n;emory. and, as 
time glides silently away, they help us to number 
our days. Of this character, was t!ie parting of 
Burr.s wiih his Highland Mary, that interesting 
female, the first object of the youthful poet's love. 
This adieu was performed with all those simple 
and striking ceremonials, which rustic sentiment 
has devised to prolong tender emotions and to in- 
spire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a 
small pnrling brook ; they laved their hands in its 
limpid stream, and, holding a bible between them, 
pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. 
They parted— never to mp<;t again ! 

The anniversary of Mary CampbeWs death, 
(for that was her name,) awakening in the sensi- 
tive miiid of Burm the most lively emotions, he 
retired from his family, then residing on the farm 
of Ellisland, and wandered, solitary, on the banks 
of the Nith, and about the farm-yard, in the ex- 
tremest agitation of mind, nearly the whole of the 
night : his agitation was so great, that he threw 
himself on the side of a coi*n-stack, and there con- 
ceived his sublime and tender elegy—his address 
to Mary in Heaven, e. 



ass 



Strathallati's Lament. 



RELlqUES. 

/ dreamed I lay where Flowers were springing. 



This air is the composition of one of the wor- 
thiest and best hearted men living — Allan Master- 
ton, schoolmaster, in Edinburgh. As he and I 
were both sprouts of jacobitisni, we agreed to de- 
dicate the words and air to that cause. 

To tell the matter of fact, except when my pas- 
sions were heated by some accidental cause, my 
jacohitism was merely by way of vive la baga- 
telle. 



Up in the Morning early. 

The chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas are 
mine. 

Up in the morning's no for me. 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are cover'' d 7vP snaw, 

rm sure ifs rvinter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind, frae east to west. 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud a.id shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae ^'en to morn, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, &c* 



These two stanzas I composed when I was se- 
venteen, and are among the oldest of my printed 
pieces. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing. 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were waning, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 
Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enj6y'd; 
But lang ere noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She prorais'd fair, and performed but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



Ah! the poor Shepherd:* 5 mournful Fate. 
Tune— Gallashiels. 

The old title, " Sour Plums o' Gallashiels,"' 
probably was the beginning of a song to this air, 
which is now lost. 

The tune of Gallashiels was composed about 
the beginning of the present century, by the laird 
of Gallashiels' piper. 



The Tears of Scotland. 

Dr. Blacklock told me, that Smollett, who was 
at bottom a great ,j acobite, composed these beauti- 
ful and pathetic verses on the infamous depreda- 
tions of the duke of Cumberland, after the battle 
of Culloden. 



What ri'ill I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

Dr. Walkei-, who was minister at MofTat, in 
1772, and is now (1791) professor of natural his- 
tory in the university of P'.dinburgh, told the fol- 
lowing anecdote concerning this air. He said 
that some gentlemen, riding a few years ago 
through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet coi.sist- 
ing of a few houses, called Moss Piatt ; when they 
were struck with this tune, which an old woman, 
spinning on a rock at her door, was singing. All 
she could tell concerning it was, that she was 
taught it when a child, and it was called, " What 
Avill I do gin my Hoggie die." No person, except 
a few females at Moss Piatt, knew this fine old 
tune ; which, in all probability, would have been 
lost; had not one of the gentlemen, who happeneil 
m have a fluto u:ith him, tak<:ji it down. 



The Banks of the Devon. 

These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now mar- 
ried to James M'Kilrick Adair, esq. physician. 
She is sister to my worthy friend, Gavin Hamil- 
ton, of Mauchline ; and was born on the banks of 
Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, re- 
siding at Hi rveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the 
romantic banks of the little river Devon. I first 
heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and g^t 
the notes taken down for this work. 



Mill, Mill 0. 

The original, or at least a song evidently prior 
to Ramsay's, is still extant. It runs thus : 

Chorus. 

The mill, mill 0, and the kill, kill 0, 
And the coggin o' Peggy^ wheel 0, 

The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, 
And danc''d the miller''s reel 0, 

As I cam down yon waterside, 
And by yon shelliu-hill O,^ 



RELiqUES. 



389 



There I spied a bonnie, bonnie lass, 
And a lass that I lov'd right wee! O* 



When ilka lad maun hae his lass, 
Tlien fye, gie me my coggie*. 



Chorus. 



W? ran and they ran. 

The author of " We ran and they ran," was a 
i-ev. Mr. Murdoch M'Lenuan, minister at Crathie, 
JDeeside. 



IVahj, IValtj. 

In the west country I have a different edition of 
the second stanza. Instead of the four lines, be- 
ginning with, " When cockle-shells," &c., the 
other way ran thus : 

O, wherefore need I busk my head. 
Or, wherefore need I kaine my hail-, 

Sin my faus luve has me forsook. 
And says, he'll never luve me mail*. 



Duncan Grey. 

Dr. Blacklock informed me, that he had often 
heard the tradition that this air was composed by 
a carman in Glasgow. 



Dumbarton Drums, 

This is the last of the West Highland airs ; and 
iVom it, over the whole tract of country to the 
confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a tune or 
song that one can say has taken its origin from 
any place or transaction in that part of Scotland. 
The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stewarton Lasses, 
which was made by the father of the present sir 
Walter Montgomery Cunningham, alias lord Lysle ; 
since which period there has, indeed, been local 
music in that country in great plenty. Johnie Faa 
is the only old song which I could ever trace as 
belonging to the extensive county of Ayr, 



Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, 

This song is by the duke of Gordon. The old 
verses are. 

There's cauld kailt in Aberdeen, 
And castocks^^ in Strathbogie ; 

* The remaining two stanzas, though pretty 
enough, partake rather too much of the rude sim- 
plicity of the " olden time" to be admitted here. 

t Knil, coleworts, a plant much used in Scotland 
for pottage . 

t CastocfcSi cabbage-stjalks. 



My coggie, sirs, my coggie, sirs, 

I cannot ivant my coggie : 
I ivadna gie my t/iree-girr^d cap, 

For e^er a quene on Bogie, 

There's Johnie Smith has got a wife 
That scrimps him o' his coggie, 

If she were mine, upon my life 
I wad douk her in a bogie. 

My coggie, sirs, &c. 



The country girls 
line— 



For Lake of Gold, 
in Ayrshire, 



instead of the 



say, 



She me forsook for a great duke, 



For Athole's duke she me forsook ; 



which I take to be the original reading. 

These words were composed by the late Dr. 
Austin, physician, at Edinburgh. He had courted 
a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been mar- 
ried ; but the duke of Athole having seen her, be- 
came so much in love with her, that he made pro- 
posals of marriage, which were accepted of, and 
she jilted the doctor. 



Here^s a Health to my true Love, &c. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He told me that 
tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- 
land. 



Sf^ 



Hey tutti tait. 



I have met the tradition universally over Scot- 
land, and particularly about Stii'ling, in the neigh- 
bourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert 
Bricce''s march at the battle of Bannockburnf, 

* Cog, of which coggie is the diminutive, (ac- 
cording to Ramsay,) is a pi-etty large wooden dish, 
the country people put their pottage in. It is also 
a drinking vessel of the same materials, differing 
from the bicker in having no handle. 

t It does not seem at all probable that the Scots 
had any martial music in the time of this mo- 
narch ; it being their custom, at that period, for 
every man in the host to bear a little horn, with 
the blowing of which, as we are told by Froissart, 
they would make such a horrible noise as if all the 
devils of hcU had been among them. It is not. 



390 



RELIQUES. 



Raving Hinds around her blo7ving. 

I composed these verses on miss Isabella M'Leod, 
of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of 
hur sister, and tlie still more melancholy death of 
her sister's husband, the late eai 1 of Loudon ; who 
shot himself out of sheer heait-break at some mor- 
tifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state 
of his finances. 



Tak your atild Cloak about ye. 

A part of this old song, according to the Eng- 
lish set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare*. 



Te Gods, Tvas Strephori's Picture blest ? 

Tune— Fourteenth of October. 

The title of this air shows that ft alludes to the 
famous king Crispian, the patron of the honoura- 
ble corporation of shoemakei-s. St. Crispian's day 
falls on the fourteenth of October, old style, as 
the old provei-b tells : 

" On the fourteenth of October, 
Was ne'er a sutort sober." 



Since robb'^d of all that charmed my Views, 

The old name of this air is, " The blossom o' 
the Raspberry." The song is Dr. Blacklock's. 

therefore, likely, that these unpolished wai'riors 
would be curious 



2'ounx; Damon, 



This air is by Oswald, 



lu perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and self recordei's." 

These horns, indeed, .are the only music ever men- 
tioned by .Barbour, to whom any particular march 
would have been too important a circumstance to 
be passed over in silence ; so that it must remain 
a moot point, whether Bruce's army were cheered 
by the sound of even a solitai-y bagpipe. 

See Iiitso7i''s Hist. Essay on Scottish Song. 
* In the drinking scene in Othello— lago sings : 

" King Stephen was a worthy peer. 

His breeches cost him but a crown ; 
He held them sixpence all too dear. 

With that he called the tailor lown ; 
He was a wight of high renown. 

And thou art but of low degree : 
'Tis pride that pulls the country down. 

Then take thine auld cloak about tliee." 

The old song ft-om which tliese stanzas are 
taken, was recovered by Dr. Percy, and preser\ ed 
by him in his Reliques of Ancient Poetry , E. 

t Sutor—2L shoemaker. 



Kirk ivad let me be. 



Tradition, in the western pan of Scotland, tells 
that this old song, of which there are still three 
stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting clergy- 
man out of a scrape. It Mas a little prior to the 
revolution, a period when being a Scots covenanter 
was being a felon, that one of their clergy, who 
was at that very time hunted by the merciless 
soldiery, fell in, by accident, with a party of the 
military. The soldiers were not exactly acquaint- 
ed with the person of the reverend gentleman of 
whom they were in search ; but, from some suspi- 
cious circumstances, they fancied they had got one 
of that cloth and opprobrious persuasion among 
them in the person of the stranger. " Mass John," 
to extricate himself, assumed a freedom of man- 
ners, very unlike the gloomy strictness of his sect ; 
and, among other convivial exhibitions, sung, (and 
some traditions say, composed on the spur of the 
occasion,) " Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, 
that the soldiers swore he was a d d honest fel- 
low, and that it was impossible he could belong to 
those hellish conventicles ; and so gave him his 
liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is 
a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted at 
country weddings, in the south-west parts of the 
kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like an 
old beggar ; a peruke, commonly made of carded 
tow, represents hoary locks ; an old bonnet ; a 
ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw-rope 
for a girdle ; a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes 
twisted round his ancles, as is done by shepherds 
in snowy weather : his face they disguise as like 
wretched old age as they can : in this plight he is 
brought into the wedding-house, frequently to the 
astonishment of strangers, who are not in the se- 
cret, and begins to sing— 

" O, I am a silly auld man. 

My name it is auld Glenae*, &c. 

He is asked to drink, and by and by to dance, 
which, after some uncouth excuses, he is prevailed 
on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here 
is commonly called " Auld Glenae ;" in short, he 
is all the time so plied with liquor, that he is un- 
derstood to get intoxicated, and with all the ridi- 
culous gesticulations of an old di-unkcn beggar, he 
dances and staggers until he falls on the floor ; yet, 
still in all his riot, nay, in his rolling and tumb- 
ling on the floor, with some or other drunken mo- 
tion of his body, he beats time to the music, till 
at last he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk. 

* Glenae, on the small river Ae, in Annandale ; 
the seat and designation of an ancient branch, and 
the pi-esent representative, of the gallant but un- 
fortunate Dalziels of Carnwatb. — This is the au- 
thor's note. 



RELIQUES. 



391 



Musing on the roaring Ocean. 



I composed these verses out of compliment to a 
Mrs. M'l.achlan, whose husband is an officer in the 
East Indies. 



Blyt/ie was she. 

I composed tliese verses while I stayed at Och- 
tertyre with sir William Murray. The lady, who 
was also at Ochiertyre at the same time, was the 
well-known toast, miss Euphemia Murray of Ltn- 
trose, who was called, and very justly, The Flower 
of Strathmore. 



I said, my lassie, dinoa cry, 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither's winding sheet, 
And o't she made a sark to me ; 

Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass tiiat made the bed to me. 



Absence. 

A song in the manner of Shenstonc. 

This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock. 



Johnny Fan, or the Gijpsie Laddie. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song, 

" The gypsies cam to my lord Cassili's yett," 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. 
The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept 
her for life. 



/ had a Horse and I had nae mair. 

This story was founded on fact. A John Hun- 
ter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family, 
who live in a place in the parish, I think, of Gal- 
ston, called Barr-mill, was the luckless hero, that 
" had a horse and had nae mair." For some little 
youthful follies, he found it necessary to make a 
retreat to the West-Highlands, where " he feed 
himself to a Highland laird," for that is the ex- 
pression of all the oral editions of the song I ever 
heard. The present Mr. Hunter, who told me th<; 
anecdote, is the great-grand-child to our hero. 



To daunten me. 

The two following old stanzas to this tune have 
sojne merit : 

To daunton me. to daunton rae, 

ken ye what it is that'll daunton me ? 
There's eighty-eight and eighty-nine, 
And a' that I hae borne sinsyne, 
There's cess and press* and presbytrie, 

1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 
But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is that wad wanton me ? 
To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the whigs, 
And right restored, where right sud be, 

1 think it would do meikle for to wanton me. 



The bonnie Lass made the Bed to me. 

' " The bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," was 
composed on an amour of Charles II, when sculk- 
ing in the north, about Aberdeen, m the time of 
the usurpation. He formed une petite affaire with 
a daughter of the house of Port-letham, who was 
the " lass that made the bed to him :"— two verses 
of it are, 

I kiss'd her lips so rosy red. 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; 



Up and warn c' Willie. 

This edition of the song I got from To7n Niel* 
of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expression' 
Up and warn a' Wiliie," alludes to the crantara 
or warning of a Highland clan to arms. Not un- 
derstandnig this, the Lowlanders, in the west ami 
south, say, « Up and waiir them a'," &c. 



A Rose-Bud by my early Tl'alk. 

This song I composed on miss Jenny Cruik- 
shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. Win. 
Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edinburgh. The 
air is by a David Siilar, quondam merchant, and 
now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to 
whom I address my printed poetical epistle in the 
measure of the Cherry jind the Slae. 



Aitld Rob Morris. 

It is remark-worthj', that the song of " Hooly 
and Fairly," in all the old editions of it, is called 



Scot and lot. 



* Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and 
lived chiefly by making coffins. He was also pre- 
cent(y, or clerk, in one of the churches. He had a 
good strong voice, and was greatly distinguished 
by his powers of mimicry, and his humorous man- 
ner of singing the old Scottish ballads. p.. 



392 



BELIQUES. 



" The Drunken Wife o' Galloway," which loca- 
lizes it to that country. 



Rattliii, roai'in Willie. 

The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
thiest fellows in the world. William Dunbar, esq. 
writer to the sig;net, Edinburgh, and colont-1 of 
the Crochallan corps, a club of wits who took that 
Ulle at the time of raising the fencible regiments. 



Where braving angry Winter^s Storms, 

This song I composed on one of the most ac- 
complished of women, miss Peggy Chalmers that 
was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes & co.'s bank, 
Edinburgh- 



Tibbie, I hae seen the Day, 

This song I composed about the age of seven- 
teen. 



the present one maybe classed with Hardycanute*, 
Kenneth, Duncan, the Laird of Woodhouselie, 
Lord Livingston, Bin. one, The Death of Mon- 
teith, and many other modern productions, which 
have been swallowed by many readers, as ancient 
fragments of old poems. This beautiful plaintive 
tune was composed by Mr, M'Gibbon, the selector 
of a collection of Scots tunes. R. R. 

In addition to the observations on Gill Morris, 
I add, that of the songs which capt. Riddel luen- 
tions, Kenneth and Duncan are Juvenile composi- 
tions of Mr. M'Kenzie, the man of feeling. MKr n- 
zie's father showed them in MS. to Dr. Black- 
lock, as the productions of his son, from which 
the doctor rightly prognosticated that the young 
poet would make, in his more advanced years, a 
respectable figure in the world of letters. 

This I had from Blacklock. 



Tibbie Dunbar, 

Tliis tune is said to be the composition of John 
M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his 
own name. 



Nancy'' s Ghost, 
This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 

Tune your Fiddles, &c. 

This song was composed by the Rev. John Skin- 
nei% nonjuror clergyman at Liiishart, near Peter- 
head. He is likewise the author of Tuilochgorum, 
Ewie wi' the Crooked Horn, John o' Badenyond, 
&c. and what is of still more consequence, he is 
one of the worthiest of mankind. He is the au- 
thor of an ecclesiastical history of Scot:and. The 
air is by Mr, Marshall, butler to the duke of Gor- 
don ; tliC first composer of strathspeys of the age. 
I have been told by somebody, who had it of Mar- 
shall himself, that he took the idea of his three 
most celebrated pieces The Marquis of Huntley's 
Reel, His Farewel, and Miss Admiral Gordon's 
Reel, from the old air, " The German Laddie." 



Gill Morice. 



When I upon thy Bosom lean. 

I'his song was the work of a very worthy, face- 
tious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, 
near Muirkirk ; which little property he was ob- 
liged to sell, in consequence of sojne connexion as 
security for some persons concerned in that vil- 
lainous bubble, the Ayr bank. He has often told 
me that he composed this song one day when his 
wife had been fretting over their misfortunef. 

* In the year 1719, the celebrated poem or bal- 
lad of Hardycanute, first appeared at Edinburgh, 
as " a fragment," in a folio pamphlet of twelve 
pages. Ritson, 

t This is the very song " that some kind hus- 
band had addrest to some sweet vjife^'' alluded to 
with such exquisite dehcacy in the Epistle to J. 
Lapraik, 

" There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thrill'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life." 



This plaintive ballad ought to have been called 
Child Maurice, and not Gill Morice. In its pre- 
sent di'ess, it has gained immortal honour from Mr. 
Home's taking it for the gi-ound-work of his fine 
tragedy of Douglas. But I am of opinion, that 
the present ballad is a modern composition ; per- 
haps not much above the age of the middle of the 
last century ; at least I should be glad to see or 
hear of a copy of the present words prior to 1650. 
That it was taken from an old ballad, called Child 
Maurice, now lost, I am inclined to believe ; but 



' When I tipon thy bosom lean 

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
I glory in the sacred ties, 

That made us ane, wha anee were twain; 
A mutual flame inspires us baith. 

The tender look, the melting kiss : 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our lovo, 

But oidy gie us change o' bliss. 

' Hae I a wish ? it's a' for tliee ; 
I ken thy ^vish is me to please •, 



RELiqUES. 



393 



j^y Harry was a Gallant gay. 

Tune— Highlander's Lament. 

The oldest title I ever heard to this air was. 
" The Highland Watch's Farewel to Ireland." 
The chorus I picked up from an old woman in 
Dunblane ; the rest of the song is mine. 



Youth, grace, and love attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
In a' their charms, and conquering aims, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain tlie liands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



The Highland Character, 

This tune was the composition of gen. Reid, 
and called by him, " The Highland, or 42d Regi- 
ment's March." 

The words are by sir Harry Erskine. 



Leader Haughs and Tarraiv. 

There is in several collections, the old song of 
Leader Haughs and Yarrow, It seems to have 
been the work of one of our itinerant minstrels, 
as he calls himself, at the conclusion of his song, 

" Minstrel Burn.'''' 



The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, Thimble an'' a'. 

This air is tlie march of the coi-poration of tai- 
lors. The second and fourth stanzas are mine. 



Beware o' bonnie Ann. 

1 composed this song out of compliment to miss 
Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend, Allan 
Masteiton, the author of the air of Strathallan's 
Lament, and two or three others in this work. 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan : 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae j imply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Our moments pass sae smooth away. 
That numbers on us look and gaze, 

Weel pleas'd they see our happy days. 
Nor envy's sel finds aught to blame ; 

And aye when weary cares arise. 
Thy bosom still shall be my harae. 

* I'll lay me there, and take my i-est, 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
I'll bid her laugh her cares away. 

And beg her not to drap a tear ; 
Hae I a joy ? it's a' her ain ; 

United, still, her heart and mine ; 
They're like the woodbine round the tree. 

That's twin'd till death shall them disjoin.' 



This is no mine ain House. 

The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- 
say's. The old words are: 

O, this is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 

I ken by the biggin o't, 

There's bread and cheese ai'e my doov-cheeks. 
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 
And pan-cakes the riggin o't. 

This is no ray ain wean, 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

AfF my head, aff my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head. 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shiiaii 
truish tvillighan. 



Laddie, lie near me. 
This song is by Blacldock. 



The Gardener -wV his Paidle*. 

This air is the Gardener's March. The title of 
the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ; 
Then busy, busy are his hours. 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw. 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare ; 

* This is the original of the song tliat appears 
in p. Ill : it is there called Dainty Davie, 
Ddd 



394 



EELIQUES. 



Then thro' the dews be maun repair, 
The gard'nei- wi' his paidle. 

When day expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws of nature's rest; 
He flies to her arms he lo'es best, 
The gai-d'ner wi' liis paidle. 



The Daij returns, imj Bosom burns. 
Tune— Seventh of Noreraber. 



The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready : 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afai-, 

It's leaving thee, my boiuiie Mary*. 



I composed this song out of compliment to one 
of th> happifst and worthiest married couples in 
th«.- world, Robert Riddel, esq. of Gltnriddel, and 
his lad}. At th- ir fire-sidt 1 have enjoyed more 
pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashion- 
abiv pi ople iu this country put together; and to 
thti. kiiidness and hospitality, I am indebted for 
many of the happiest hours of my life. 



The Gaberlunzie-Man*. 



The black Eagle. 

This song is by Dr, Fordyce, whose merits as a 
prose writer are well known. 



Jamie come try me. 



This air is Oswald's ; the song mine. 



The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to commemo- 
rate an intrigue of James the Vth. Mr. Callan- 
der of Craigfbrtb, published, some years ago, an 
edition of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," and the 
" Gabex'lunzie-Man," with notes critical and his- 
torical. James the Vth is said to have been fond 
of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was 
suspv cted by his contemporaries, that, in his fre- 
quent excursions to that part of the country, he 
had other purposes in view besides golfing and 
archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, 
and Oliphant, (one of them resides at Gosford, 
and the others in the neighbourhood,) were occa- 
sionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, 
which gave rise to the following satirical advice to 
his majesty, from sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, 
lord lyont. 

Sow not your seed on Sandylands, 
SpLud not your strength in Weir, 

And ride not on an Elephant, 
For spoiling o' your gear. 



The lazy Mist. 
This song is mine. 

Johnie Cope, 

This satirical song was composed to comraem«»- 
ratt general Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, in 
1745, when he marched against the clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remember 
the title, which was, 

Will ye go to the coals in the morning ? 



/ love my Jean, 

This air is by Marshall ; the song I composed 
out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 

N. B. It was during the honey-moon. 



My bonnie Mary, 

This air is Oswald's ; the first half stanza of 
the song is old, the rest mine. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 

* A wallet-man or tinker, who appears to have 
been formerly a jack of all trades. 

t Sir David was Hon-kln^'at*annSi under 
James V. 



Cease, cease, my dear Friend, to explore. 

This song is by Dr. Blacklock ; I believe, but 
am not quite certain, that the air is liis too. 



Atild Robin Gray. 

This air was formerly called, " The Bride- 
groom greets when the Sun gangs down," 



• This song, which Burns here acknowledges to 
be his own, was first introduced by him iu a letter 



RELIQUES. 



39i 



Donald and Flora. 



This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, pi-eserv- 
ed froiii time immemorial in tli^- Hebrides ; tliey 
seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest 
Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were 
written to commemorate the unfortunate expedi- 
tion of general Burgoj ne in America, in 1777. 



7ve]-e I on Parnassus'' Hill. 

This air is Oswald's ; tlie song I made out of 
compliment to Mrs. Burns. 



Farewel to the Highlands, farewel to the north, 
The birth-place ot valour, the country of worth : 
Wherever I wander, wherever 1 rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewel to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; 
Farewel to the straths and green valleys below: 
Farewel to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewel to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer : 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



The Captive Ribband. 
This air is called Robie donna Gorach. 



Ca'' the Exves to the Knowes. 

This beautiful song is in the true old Scotcli 
taste, yet I do not know that either air or words, 
were in print before. 



There'' s a Youth in this City. 

This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
his lament for his brother. The first half stanza 
of the song is old ; the rest is mine. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That he from our lasses should wander awa; 
For he's bonnie and uraw, weel-favour'd with a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a". 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket* is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is Uie hue, &;c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been eourtiu ; 
Weel-featcr'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and 
braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a baen 
him. 
And Susy whase dady was laird o' the ha'; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy luaist fetters his 
fancy, 
—But the laddie's dearsel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



My Hearts in the Highlands. 

The first half stanza of this song is old ; tha 
rest is mine. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highland's wherever I go. 

to Mrs. Dunlop, as two old stanzas. See General 
i Correspondence, No. LX. 

* Fecket— an under-wajstcoat with sleeves. 



The Bridal o't. 

This song is tlie work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, 
late schoolmaster at Lochlee ; and author of a 
beautiful Scots poem, called the Fortunate Shep- 
herdess. 



Todlen Hame. 

This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever 
was composed. 



The Braes o' Ballochmyle. 

This air is the composition of my friend Allan 
Masterton, in Edinburgh. 1 composed the verses 
on the amiable and excellent family of White- 
foord's leaving B.-.llochmyle, wht n sir John's mis- 
fortunes had obliged him to sell the estate. 



The rantin Dog the Daddie oH, 

I composed this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very paiticular acquaint- 
ance of mine, who was at that time under a 
cloud. 

O wha my babie-cleuts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when 1 cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wlia will own he did the faut ■' 
Wha will buy My groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog. the daddie o't. 



3U& 



RELIQUES. 



When I mount the creeple-cliair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



But I foor up the glen at e'en. 

To see my bonnie lassie ; 
And lang before the grey morn cam. 

She was na hauf sae saucie. 



Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fid gin fain* ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog, the daddie o't. 



O weary fa' the waukrife cock, 
And the foumart lay his craw in ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 



The Shepherd's Preference. 

This song is Blacklock's. I don't know how 
it came by the name, but the oldest appellation of 
the air was, " Whistle and I'll come to you, my 
lad." 

It has little affinity to the tune commonly 
known by that name. 



An angry wife I wat she raise, 

And o'er the bed she brought her j 

And wi' a mickle hazle rung 

She made her a weel-pay'd dochter, 

O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and bonnie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie*. 



The bonnie Banks of Ayr. 

I composed this song as I convoyed my chest so 
far on the road to Greenock, where I was to em- 
bark in a few days for Jamaica. 

I meant it as my fai-ewel dirge to my native 
landt. 



John o' Badenyond\, 

This excellent song is the composition of my 
worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. 



TuUochgorum. 

This, first of songs, is the master-piece of my old 
friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the 
to%vTi of Cullen I think it was, in a friend's house 
whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery 
observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of 
Tulluchgorum wanted words, she begged them of 
Mr. Sfeinner, who gratified her wishes, and the 
wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most 
excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's son, 
bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. 



For a' that and c' that. 



A IVaukrife Minnie^. 

I picked up this old song and tune from a coun- 
try girl in Nithsdale. I never met with it else- 
where in Scotland. 

Whare are you gaun, my bonnie lass, 
Whare are you gaun, my liinnie ? 

She answer'd me right saucilie, 
An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonnie lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie ? 
By you burn-side, gin ye maun ken, 

In a wee house wi' my minnie. 

* Pidgin /oin— fidgeting with delight— ticIUed 
with pleasure. 

I I had taken my last farewel of my few friends ; 
my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in Ca- 
ledonia, The gloomy Night is gathering fast. 
See p. 13, 

} The words of Burns's celebrated dirge— be- 
ginning, ' Man rvas made to mourn^ were com- 
posed to this tune. E. 

§ A watchful mother. 



This song is minet, all except the chorus. 



Auld lang Syne. 

Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the 
idea of the song, and the first line, from the old 
fragment, which may be seen in The Museum, 
vol. V. 



Willie brew''d a Peck o' Maut, 

This air is Mastei'ton's ; the song mine. The 
the occasion of it was this : Mr. Wm. Nicol, of the 
High School, Edinbui-gh, during the autumn vaca- 
tion being at Moflat, honest Allan, who was at 
that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I went to 
pay Nicol a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, 
that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own 
way, that we should celebrate the business. 

* The editor thinks it respectful to the poet to 
preserve the verses he thus recovered. 

t This is part of the bard's song in T]i£ Jolbj \ 
Beggars. 



RELIQUES. 



397 



Killiecrankie. 

The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand 
made by the clans for James, after Iiis abdication. 
Here the gallant lord Dundee fell in the moment 
of victory, and with him felfc the hopes of the 
party. General M'Kay, when he found the High- 
landers did not pursue his flying army, said, 
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would have 
overlooked this advantage." A great stone marks 
the place where Dundee fell. 



'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 

Beyond thee., &c. 

But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, &c. 



Frae the Friends and Land I love* 



The Ervie wV the crooked Horn. 
Another excellent song of old Skinner's. 

Craigie-burn Wood. 

It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con- 
fine of that country where the greatest part of 
our Lowland music, (so far as from the title, 
■words, &c. we can localize it,) has been composed. 
From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches 
the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air 
of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a 
Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for 
a miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. 
The young lady was born at Craigie-burn- wood. 
The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 
And to be lying beyond thee, 

srveetly, soundly, 7veel may he sleep, 
That''s laid in the bed beyond thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-bum-wood, 

And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-bum- 
wood, 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 

Beyond thee, &c. 

1 see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But pleasure they hae nane for me, 
While care my heart is wringing. 

Beyond thee, &c, 

I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, 'ire, 

I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonnie. 
But oh, what will my tonnents be, 

If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 

Beyond thee, &c. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
lu love to lie and languish, 



I added the four last lines by way of giving a 
turn to the themes of the poem, such as it is. 

Frae the friends and land I love, 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite ; 
Frae my best belov'd I rove. 

Never mair to taste delight. 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care, 
When remembrance racks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desart ilka blooming shore ; 
Till the fates, nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore. 
Till revenge wi' laurel'd head. 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilka loyal, bonnie lad, 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



Hughie Graham. 

There are several editions of this ballad. 1 lii-, 
here inserted, is from an oral tradition in Ayr- 
shire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular 
song. It, originally, h.id a simple old tune, wliiiU 
I have forgotten. 

Our lords are to the mountains gane, 

A hunting o' the fallow deer, 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham 

For stealing o' the bishop's naai*e. 

And they have tied him hand aad foot. 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; 

The lads and lasses met him there. 

Cried, Hughie Graham, ihou'rt a louD. 

O lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my braid sword in the same ; 

He's no in Stirling town this day. 

Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee. 
Five hundred white stot? I'll gie you,. 

If ye'll let Hughie Graliam free. 

O hand your tongue, the bishop says, 
And wi' your pleading let nie be j 



RELIQUES. 



Fortho' ten Grahams were in Lis coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Wliitefoord, 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Five hundred white penct I'll gie you, 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O haud your tongue now, lady fair, 
And wi' your pleading let it be ; 

Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
It's for my honour he maun die. 

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe. 
He looked to the gallows tree, 

Yet never colour left his cheek. 
Nor ever did he blink his e'e. 



A Southland Jenny. 

This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
notes were never taken down before. It, as well 
as many of the ballad tunes in this collection, was 
written from Mrs. Hhirns's voice. 



My Tocher^s the Jexvel*. 

This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. It is 
notoriously taken from " The Muckin o' Geor- 
die's Byre." It is also to be found, long prior to 
Nathjjiiel Gow's aera, in Aird's Selectio«ii of Airs 
and Marches, the first edition, under the name of, 
" The Highway to Edinburgh." 



At length he looked round about, 

To see whatever he could spy: 
And there he saw his auld father, 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

O haud your tongue, my father dear, 

And wi' your weeping let it be ; 
Thy weeping's sairer on my heart. 

Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brother John 

My sword that's bent in the middle clear : 

And let him come at twelve o'clock, 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 

My sword that's bent in the middle brown, 

And bid him come at four o'clock. 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my wife, 

The neist time ye gang o'er the moor. 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare, 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their blood ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood*. 

* Burns did not chuse to be quite, correct in 
stating that this copy of the ballad of Hughie Gra- 
ham is printed- from oral tradition in Ayrshire. 
The fact is, that four of the stanzas are either al- 
tered or superadded by himself. 

Of this number the third and eighth are original ; 
the ninth and tenth have received his corrections. 
Perhaps pathos was never more touching, than in 
the picture of the hero singling out his poor aged 
father from the crowd of spectators ; and the sim- 
ple grandeur of preparation for this afflicting cir- 
cumstance, in the verse that immediately precedes 
it, is matchless. 

That the reader may properly appreciate the 
value of Burns's touches, I here subjoin two verses 
from the most correct copy of the ballad, as it is 
printed in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 324. 

" He looked over his left shoulder. 
And for to see what he might see ; 



The guid Wife count the Lowin. 

The chorus of this is part of an old song, one 
stanza of which I recollect. 

Every day my wife tells me 
That ale and bi-andy will ruin me ; 
But if gude liquor be my dead, 
This shall be written on my head. 
guid xvifc count, &c. 



ThcreHl never be Peace till Jamie comes Hamc. 

This tune is sometimes called, " There's few 
gude Fellows when Willie's awa." But I never 
have been able to meet with any thing else of the 
song than the title. 



/ do confess thou art sae Fair. 

This song is altei*ed from a poem by sir Robert 
Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Ann, queens 
of Scotland. The poem is to be found in James 
Watson's collection of Scots poems, the earliest 
collection printed in Scotland. I think that I have 
improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giv- 
ing them a Scots dress. 

I do confess thou art so fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve j 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could muvc. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

There was he aware of liis auld father, 
Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. 

" O hald your tongue, my father, he says, 
And see that ye dinna weep for me ! 

For they may ravish nie o' m> life. 

But they cunua banish me from heaven hie ?''' 

* TocAer— marriage portion. 



BBLiqUES, 



399 



Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, i-ieh in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate e'er lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside. 
Like ony common weed and vile*. 



The Soldier Laddie, 

The first verse of this is old: the rest is by 
Ramsay.— The tune seems to be the same with a 
slow air, called " Jacky Hume's Lament"— or, 
" The Hollin Buss"— or, " Ken ye what Meg o' 
the Mill has gotten." 



Where load bonnie Annie lie ? 



O where '11 o«r gudeman lie. 
Till he shuie o'er the sijumer ? 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 

The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, 

Up amang the ben-bawks, 
Amang the rotten timmer. 



Callorvay Tarn. 

I have seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) 
to this tune, called " The Wooing of the Maiden." 
These entertainments are now much worn out in 
this part of Scotland. Two ai-e still retained in 
Nithsdale, viz. Jilly Pure Auid Glenae, and this 
one. The Wooing of the Maiden. 



As I cam down by yon Castle Wall. 
This is a very popular Ayrshire song. 



The old name of this tune is ; 
" Whare '11 our gudeman lie." 

A silly old stanza of it runs thus— 
O where '11 our gudeman lie, 
tiudenjan lie, gudeman lie, 

* The following are the old words of this song : 

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fail*. 

And 1 might have gone near to love thee ; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, had power to move thee ; 

But I can let thee now alone, 

As worthy to be lov'd by none. 

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favours are but like the wind 
That kisseth every thing it meets. 

And since thou can'st with more than one, 

Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
Ann'tl with her briars, how sweetly smells ! 

But piuck'd and strain'd through ruder hands^ 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

But scent and beauty 1)oth are gone. 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 
When thou hast handled been awhile \ 

Like sere-flowers to be thrown aside. 
And I shall sigh, while some will smile, 

To see thy love to every one 

Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none I 

This song may be seen in Playford's Select Ayres, 
1659, folio, under the title of a " Song to a foi'sa- 
ken Mistresse." 

It is also printed in Ellis's Specimens of tlie 
enrly English Poets, vol. iii, p. 325. 



Lord Ronald iny Son. 

This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is 
evidently the original of Lochaber. In this .nan- 
ner, most of our finest more modern airs have had 
their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shep- 
herd, composed the simple artless original air; 
which being picked up by the more learned musi- 
cian, took the improved form it bears. 



0''er the Moor amang the Heather*. 

This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, 
a girl who was not only a whore, but also a tliief ; 
and in one or other character has visited most of 

• Probably some of my readers will be curious 
to see this production ; I here subjoin it : 

Comin thro' the craigs o' Kyle. 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather. 
There I meet a bonnie lassie. 
Keeping of her yowes thegither. 

O^er the moor amang the heather, 
0''er the moor amang the heather, 
There I met a bonnie lassie, 
Keeping o' her yorves thegither. 

Says I, my dearie where is thy hame, 
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ? 
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks 
That feed amang the blooming heather. 

O^er the moor, &c, 

We laid us down upon a bank, 
Sae warm and sunny was the weather, 
She left her flocks at large to rove 
/Vmang the bonnie banks of heather. 

O'er the moor, &t\. 



409 



RELIQUES. 



the correction houses in tlie 'west. Slie was bom 
I believe in Kilmarnock.— I took the song down 
from her singing, as she was strolling tlirough the 
country, with a slight-of-hand blackguard. 



To the Rose Bud. 

This song is the composition of a — — Johnson, 
a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. The 
tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from Jockie's 
Gray Breeks. 



And when wit and refinement ha'e polished her 

darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I 'm clasp'd in her 
arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



Ton -wild mossy Mountains. 



It is na, Jean, thy bonnie Face. 



These were originally English verses :— I gave 
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to them their Scots dress, 
part of my private history, which it is of no conse- 
quence to the world to know. ^ 



Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 

his reed : 

Where the grouse, &c. 

Net Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 

shores. 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. 

Amang the wild mountains shall still be my path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us, unheeded, flie the swift hours o' 

love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education, but sma' is her share ; 
Her pai-entage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.* 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ; 

While thus we lay she sang a sang, 
Till echo rang a mile and farther, 
And aye the burden o' the sang 
Was o'er the moor amang the heather. 
O'e;- the moor, &c. 

She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne, 
I could na think on any ither : 
By sea and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonnie lass amang the lieather, 

0''cr the moor, &c: 

* " I love my love because I know my love loves 
le." 

Maid in Bedlam. 



Eppie M'Nab. 



The old song with this title has more wit than 
decency. 



M'^ha is that at my Bower Dooi 



This tune is also known by the name of, " Lass 
an I come near thee." The words are mine. 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it liut Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief ? 

come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Befoi-e the morn ye '11 work mischief ; 

Indeed wdll I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye 'II keep me waukiii wi' your din; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye 'II bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

1 '11 remain, quo' Findlay ; 

I dread ye '11 learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I. quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower. 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal 'till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



Thou art gone aiva. 

This tune is the same with, " Haud awa frac 
me, Donald." 



RELIQUES, 



401 



The Tears J shed must ever fall. 



This song of genius was composed by a miss 
Cranston*. It wanted four lines to make all the 
stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the 
four first of the last stanza. 

No cold approach, no alter 'd mein, 
Just what would make suspicion start ; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 
He made me blest— and broke my heart ! 



The bonnie loee Thing. 

Composed by my little idol, '• The charming, 
lovely Davies." 



The tither Morn. 

This tune is originally from the Highlands. I 
have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told 
was very clever, but not by any means a lady's 
song. 

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son. 

This most beautiful tune is, 1 think, the hap- 
piest composition of that bard-born genitis, John 
Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr.— 
The words were composed to commemorate the 
much lamented, and premature death of James 
JFerguson, Esq. jun. of Craigdarroch. 



I was a telling you, 
Luckie Nansie, luckie Nansle, 
Auld sprii'gs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me. 

Which I should conjecture to be part of a song, 
prior to the affair of Williamson. 



Bob o' Dumblane, 

Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. The 
original, which I learned on tht; spot from my old 
hostess in the principal inn there, is : 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 
And I '11 lend you my thripplin-kame ; 

My heckle is broken, it cannot be gotten. 
And we '11 gae dance the bob o' Dumblane. 

Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood— three came hame ; 

An' it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit. 
An' it be na weel bobbit, we '11 bob it again. 

I insert this song to introduce the following an- 
ecdote, which I have herd well authenticated. In 
the evening of the day of the battle of Duuiblane* 
(Sheriff-Muir), when the action was over, a Scots 
officer in Argyle's army, observed to his grace, 
that he was afraid the rebels would give out to the 
world that they had gotten the victory. • Weel, 
weel," returned his grace, alludii.g to the forego- 
ing ballad, " if they think it be nae weel bobbit, 
wc '11 bob it again." 



Daintie Davie. 

This song, tradition says, and the composition 
itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David 
Williamson's begetting the daughter of lady Cher- 
rytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were 
searching her house to apprehend him for being an 
adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The 
pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, 
and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and 
passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's 
bedfellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to be 
found in Herd's collection, but the origij^l song 
consists of five or six stanzas, and were their deli- 
cacy equal to their ivit and humour, they would 
merit a place in any collection. The first stanza 



Being pursued by the dragoons, 
Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And weel I wat he was worth his room. 
For he was my daintie Davie. 

Ramsay's song, Luckie Nansle, though he calls 
it an old song with additions, seems to be all his 
own, except the chorus : 



Note referred to in page '•"'4. 

A short Account of James Tytler. 

JAMES TYTLER was the son of a country 
clergyman, in the presbytery of Brechin, and bro- 
ther to Dr. Tytler, the translator of Callimachus. 
He was instructed by his father in classical learn- 
ing and chool divinity, and attained an accu- 
rate knowh dge of the Latin and Greek languages, 
and an extensive acquaintance with biblical litera- 
ture and scholastic theology. Having discovered 
an early predilection for the medical pro.ession, 
he was put apprentice to a surgeon in Fo.far. and 
afterwards sent to attend the medical classes at 
Edinburgh. While a medical student he cultivat- 
ed experimental chemistry and controversial the- 
ology with equal assiduity. Unfortunately his re- 
ligious opinions, not deemed orthodox, or calvinis- 
tical, connected him with a society of Glassites,and 
involved hira in a marriage with a member of the 



* This lady i 
Stewart. 



now man-ied to profesror Dngald 



* The battle of Dumblane, or Sherilf-Muir, was 
fought the 13th of November, 1715, between the 
the earl of Mar, for the chevalier, and the duke of 
Argyle, for the govenunent. Both siiles claimed 
the "victory, the left wing of either array being 
routed. Ritson observes, it is very reniarKablt that 
the capture of Preston happened on the same day. 
Eee 



402 



RELiqUES. 



society, whicli terminated in a separation. He now 
settled at Leith, as an apothecary, depending on 
the jiatronage of his religious connections ; but his 
separation from the society, which happened soon 
after, with an unsteadiness that was natural to him, 
disappointed his expectations. When he ceased to 
be a Glassite, he ceased not to be a firm believer 
in tlie Christian revelation, and a zealous advocate 
of genuine Christianity ; but he never afterwards 
held communion with any denomination of Chris- 
tians. The neglect of his business was the una- 
voidable consequence of his attention to religious 
dissentions ; and having contracted debts to a con- 
siderable amount, he was obliged to remove to Ber- 
wick, and afterwards to Newcastle. In both places 
he was employed in preparing chemical medi- 
cines for the druggists ; but the liberality of his 
employers being insufficient to preserve an en- 
creasing family from tlie evils of penury, he re- 
turned to Edinburgh, in the year 1772, in extreme 
poverty, and took refuge from the molestation of 
his creditors within the precincts of the sanctuary 
of Holyrood House, where debtors ai'e privileged 
from arrests. At this period his wife deserted him 
and their five children, the youngest only six 
n^onths old, and returned to her relations. He so- 
laced himself, for the privation of domestic happi- 
ness, by composing a humorous ballad entitled " The 
Pleasures of the Ahbey^'' which was his first at- 
tempt in poetry. In a description of its inhabi- 
tants, the author himself is introduced in the 16th 
and 17th stanzas. In the avocation of an autlior 
by profession, which he was now compelled to as- 
sume, he displayed a versatility of talent and a fa- 
cility in writing, unexampled in the transactions of 
Die press. He commenced his literary career by a 
publication entitled " Essays on the most impor- 
tant Subjects of natural and revealed Religion" 
which issued from the asylum for debtors, under 
the peculiar circumstances of being composed by 
himself, at the printing case, from his own con- 
ceptions, without a manuscript before him, and 
wrought off at a press of his own construction, by 
his own hands. He left this singular work, which 
was to be completed in two volumes 8vo. unfinish- 
ed, and turned aside, to attack the opinions of a new 
religious sect called Bereans, in a Letter to Mr, John 
Barclay onthe Doctrine of Assurance, in which he 
again performed the functions of author, compo- 
sitor, and pressman. He next set forth, with such 
assistance as he could find, a monthly publication, 
entitled The Gentleman and Lady^s Magazine, 
which was soon abandoned for The Weekly Review, 
a literary miscellany, which, in its turn, was dis- 
continued in a very short time. These publica- 
tions, unavoidably disfigured with many typogra- 
jihical defoi-mities, made him known to the 
booksellers ; and from them he afterwards found 
constant employment in compilations, abridgments, 
translations, and miscellaneous essays. He now 
ventured to leave .the miserable apartments which 
he had long occupied in the sanctuary for debtors, 
for more comfortable lodgings, first at Restalrig, 
and afterwards in the city, and if his prudence aj»d 
steadiikcss had been equal to his talents and indus- 
try, he might have earned by his labours a com- 
plete mainteiiance, which never fell to his lot. As 
he wrqte for subsistence, not from the vanity of 



authorsliip, he was engaged in many works which 
were anonymous, and in others which appeared 
with the names of his employers. He is editor or 
author of the followiiig works : The Weekly MiV' 
ror, a periodical publication which began in 1780. 
A System of Geography, in 8vo. A History of 
Edinburgh, 12mo. A Geographical, Historical, and 
Commercial Grammar, 2 vols. 8vo. A Revieiu of 
Dritchken^s Theory of Inflammation, 12mo. with a 
practical dedication. Remarks on Mr, Pinkerton^s 
Introduction to the History of Scotland, 8vo. A 
poetical Translation of Virgifs Eclogues, 4to. A 
general Index to the Scots Magazine, A System 
of Chemistry, written at the expense of a gentleman 
who was to put his name to it, unpublished. He 
gave his assistance in i)reparing the System of 
Anatomy published by A. Bell, and was an occa- 
sional contributor to the Medical Commentaries, 
and other periodical publications of the times. He 
was the principal editor of the second edition of the 
Encyclopedia Britannica, and finished with incx*e- 
dible labour, a large proponion of the more con- 
siderable scientific treatises and histories, and al- 
most all the minor articles. He had an apai'tment 
assigned him in the printing-house, where he per- 
formed the oflices of compiler, and corrector of 
the press, at a salary of sixteen shillings a week! 
When the third edition was undertaken, he was 
engaged as a stated contributor, np<»n more liberal 
terms, and wrote a larger share in the early vo- 
lumes than is ascribed to him in the general pre- 
face. It was his misfortune to be continually 
drawn aside from the business of his employers by 
the delight he took in prosecuting experiments in 
chemistry, electricity, and mechanics, whicli con- 
sumed a large portion of his time and money. He 
conducted for some time, with success, a manufac- 
turing pi-ocess of which he was the inventor ; but 
after he had disclosed his secret to the gentlemen 
at whose expence it was carried on, he was dis- 
missed, without obtaining either a share in the bu- 
siness, or a suitable compensation for his services. 
He was the first in Scotland who adventured in a 
fire balloon, constructed upon the plan of Mont- 
golfier. He ascended from Comely Garden, Edin- 
burgh, amidst the acclamations of an immense mul- 
titude, and descended at a distance of a quarter of 
a mile, owing to some unforeseen defect in the 
machinery. The failure of this adventure de- 
prived him of the public favour and applause, and 
encreased his pecuniary difficulties. He again 
had r^llpurse to his pen for subsistence, and amidst 
the drudgery of writing, and the cares which 
pressed upon him daily, he exhilarated his spirits, 
at intervals, with a tune on tlje Irish bagpipe, 
wliich he played with much sweetness, interposing 
occasionally a song of his own composition, sung 
with great ai^imation. A solace of this kind was 
well snited to the simplicity of his manners, the 
modesty of his disposition, and the integrity of his 
character, such as they were before he suffered 
his social propensities to violate tlie rules of so- 
briety. Forgetting his old friends, he associated 
with discontented persons, and entered into a deli- 
berate exposition of the abuses of government, in 
" A Pamphlet on the Excise," and more systema- 
tically in a periodiwtl publication, entitled The His- 
torical Register, which gratified malignity by per- 



RELIQUES. 



403 



sonal ii»vective and intemperance of language. 
He was concerned in llie wild irrational plans of 
the British Convention, and published " A Hand 
Bill addressed to the People,^'' written in so infla- 
matorj' a style, as rendered him obnoxious to go- 
vernmeut. A warrant was issued to apprehend 
him, and he left his native country and crossed the 
Atlantic for America, where he fixed his residence 
in the town of Salem, ia the state of Massaeliu- 



setts, where he established a newspaper In con- 
nexion with a printer, which he continued till his 
death, which happened in the year 1805, in the 
58th year of his age. 

The editor cannot dismiss this note without ac- 
knowledging himself greatly obliged by the com- 
munications of Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edin- 
burgh. 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF THE SONGS 



INTRODUCED IN THE PRECEDING REMARKS. 



A Mother's Lament for the death of her Son 


401 


Johnie Faa, or the Gypsie Laddie 


391 


A Rose-bud by my early Walk 


391 


John Hay's bonnie Lassie 


384 


A Southland J'enny . - . - 


398 


Jolni o' Badenyond - . . 


396 


A waukiife Minnie 


396 


Killecrankie .... 


397 


Absence 


391 


Kird wad let me be 


390 


Ah ! the poor Shepherd's mournful fate - 


388 


Laddie, lie near me . 


393 


Allan Water .... 


383 


Leader Haughs and Yarrow 


393 


As I cam down by yon castle wall 


399 


Lewis Gordon ... 


385 


Auld lang syne - - - - 


396 


Lord Ronald my Son ... 


399 


Auld Rob Morris 


391 


Mai-y's Dream - . - - 


383 


Auld Robin Gray 


394 


Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow 


384 


Bt'ss the Gawkie 


379 


May Eve, or, Kate of Aberdeen 


382 


Beware o' bonnie Ann - - - 


393 


Mill, Mill, O - . . 


388 


Bide ye yet - 


386 


My ain kind deai-ie— O 


384 


Blink o'er the Bum, sweet Bettie 


384 


My bonnie Mai-y - - - 


393 


Blythe was she . - - 


391 


M'Pherson's farewel ... 


387 


Bob o' Dumblane . - , 


401 


My Dearie if thou die ... 


385 


Ca' the Ewes to the Kiiowes 


395 


My dear Jockie .... 


380 


Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ... 


389 


My Harry was a gallant gay 


393 


Cease, cease, my dear friend, to explore 


394 


My Heart's in the Highlands 


395 


Clout the Caldron 


380 


My Jo, Janet . . . - 


387 


Corn Rigs are bonnie 


386 


My Tocher's the Jewel 


398 


Craigie-burn Wood 


397 


Musing on the roaring Ocean 


391 


Cromlet's lilt - - - - 


385 


Nancy's Ghost .... 


392 


Daiiitie Davie - - - - 


401 


O were I on Parnassus' Hill 


395 


Donald and Flora ... 


395 


O'er the Moor amang the Heather 


399 


Down the burn. Darie 


384 


Oh, ono Chrio ... 


386 


Dumbarton Drums 


389 


Oh, open the Door, Lord Gregory 


370 


Duncan Grey - - - - 


389 


Polwarth on the Green 


386 


Eppie M'Nabb 


400 


Rattlin', roarin' Willie - - - 


392 


Fairest of the fair ... 


382 


Ravin Winds around her blowing 


390 


Fife, and a' the Lands about it - - 


387 


Roslin Castle - - - - 


379 


For a' that and a' that 


396 


Sae merry as we twa hae been 


385 


For lake of Gold 


389 


Saw ye Johnie comin ; quo' she 


379 


Frae the Friends and Land I love 


397 


Saw ye my Peggy ? . . - 


380 


Fye gae rub her o'er wi' Strae 


380 


She rose and let me in 


385 


Galloway Tarn 


399 


Since robb'd of all that charm'd my views 


390 


Gill Morice 


392 


btrathallan's Lament ... 


388 


Go to the Ewe-bughts, Marion 


385 


Strephon and Lydia 


386 


Gramachree - ... 


383 


Tak your auld Cloak about ye 


388 


Hert 's a health to my true love 


389 


Tarry woo . . - 


383 


He stole my tender heart away 


382 


The banks of the Tweed 


379 


H« y tutty taiti ... 


389 


banks of the Devon - - 


388 


Highland Laddie 


381 


banks of Forth ... 


385 


Hughie Graham - - - - 


397 


beds of sweet Roses 


379 


I do confess thou art sae fail' 


398 


birks of Aberfeldy 


387 


I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 388 


black Eagle 


393 


I had a horse and I had nae mair 


39] 


blaithrie o't - - - - 


382 


I love iny Jean 


394 


blithsome bridal ... 


384 


I'll never leave thee ... 


386 


bonnie banks of Ayr ... 


396 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ... 


387 


bonnie brucket lassie 


384 


It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 


400 


bonnie lass made the bed to me 


391 


I wish my love were in a Mire 


383 


bonnie wee Thing 


401 


Jamie come try me - - - 


394 


bridal o't - - - - 


395 


Jamie Gay .... 


380 


braes o' Ballochmyle 


395 


Jockie's gray breeks 


381 


busli aboon Traquair 


385 


johnie Cope .... 


394 


captive Ribband 


395 



i 



406 



RELIQUES. 



The Collier's bonnie lassie - - 383 

day returns, my bosom burns - - 393 

ewie wi' the crooked Hora - - 397 

flowers of Edinburgh - - - 380 

gaberlunzie Man - - - 393 

gardener wi' his Paidle - - 393 

gentle Swain ... 381 

happy Marriage - - 381 

highland Character ... 393 

highland Lassie, O - - - 387 

highland Queen .... 379 

lass of Liviston ... 38O 

lass of Peatty's Mill - - 381 

last time I cam o'er the Moor - - 381 

lazy Mist - - - - 394 

Maid that tends the Goats - 383 

mucking of Geordie's Byar - 386 

posie ... . 382 

rantin Dog the Daddie o't - - 395 

Shepherd's Complaint - - 387 

Shepherd's Preference - - 396 

Soger Laddie - - - 399 

Tailor fell thro* the Bed, thimble an' a' 393 

tears I shed must ever fall - - 401 

tears of Scotland - - 388 

tither mom - - - 401 

tumimspike - - - - 391 

young Man's Dream - - 387 

Then Guidwife count the Lawin - 398 

There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame 398 

There's a Youth in this City - - 395 

There's nae luck about the House - 383 

This is no mine ain House - - 393 



Thou art gane awa - - - - 40d 

Tibbie Dunbar .... 392 

Tibbie, I hae seen the Day ... 392 

To dauuton me - . . . 391 

To the Rose-bud - - . . . 400 

To the Weavers gin ye go - - - 386 

Todlen Hame - . . - 395 

Tranent Muir - . . . 386 

Tullochgorum .... 395 

Tune your Fiddles ... 392 

Tweedside .... . 392 

Up and warn a', Willie . . 391 

Up in the morning early - - 388 

Waly, Waly .... 333 

Waukin o' the Fauld .... 395 

We ran, and they i-an - - - 389 

Were na my Heart light I wad die - 387 

Wha is that at my Bower Door ? - - 400 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die - 388 

When I upon thy bosom lean - - 392 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms - 392 

Where wad bonnie Annie lie ? - - 399 

Wilie brew'd a peck o' Maut - - 396 

Ye Gods, was Strephon's picture blest - 390 

Yon wild mossy Mountains - - 400 

Young Damon ... 390 

" In the changes of language, these songs may 
no doubt suffer change ; but the associated strain 
of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, 
while the clear stream sweeps down the Vale of 
Tan-oTv, or the yellow broom waves on the Corvelen 
Knnues." Dr. CURRIE. 



I 



COMMON PLACE BOOK. 
JOURNALS, 
FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS, 
MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS 



i 



ROBERT BURNS'S 
COMMON PLACE, OR SCRAP BOOK, 

BEGUN IN APRIL, 1783*. 



" ObseiTatiovs, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry 
&c. by Robert Burness ; a man who had little art, 
in making money, and stiH less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of 
honesty, and unbounded good-will to every crea- 
tui-e, rational and irrational. As he was but little 
indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a 
plough-tail, his performances must be strongly 
tinctui-ed with his unpolished, rustic way of life ; 
but as I believe they are really his oivn, it may be 
some entertainment to a curious observer of hu- 
man nature, to see how a plough-man thinks, and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, 
grief, with the like cares and passions, which, how- 
ever diversified by the modes and manners of life, 
operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the 
species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do not 
want sense to make a figure, so much as an opi- 
nion of their own abilities, to put them upon re- 
cording their observations, and allowing them the 
same importance which they do to those which ap- 
pear in print." 

Shenstonc. 

••' Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face. 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 

Ibid. 



April, 1783. 

Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads a 

* It has been the chief object in making this 
collection, not to omit any thii:g which might illus- 
trate the character and feelings pf the bard at dif- 
ferent periods of liis life. Hence these " Obser- 
vations'''' are given entire from his manuscript. A 
small portion appears in Dr. Currie's edition, 
but the reader Mill pardon the repetition of it here 
when he considers how much so valuable a paper 
would lose by being given in fragments, and when 
he recollects that this volume may fall into the 
hands of those who have not the opportunity of 
referring to the large edition of the works. 

This remark will apply equally to the Journals 
and other pieces, of which parts have before been 
published. E. 



young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it in 
a great measure deserves the highest encomiums 
that have been passed upon it. If any thing on 
earth desenes the name of rapture or transport, it 
is the feelings of green eigliteen in the company 
of the mistress of his heart, Avhen she repays him 
with an equal return of affection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connection between love, 
and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I have al- 
ways thought it a fine toiich of nature, that pas- 
sage in a modern love composition, 

" As tow'rds her cot he jogg'd along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For ray own part, I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet till I got once hear- 
tily in love, and then rhj-n.e and song were, in a 
manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. 
The following composition was the first of my 
performances, and done at an early period of life, 
when my heart glowed with honest warm simpli- 
city; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways 
of a wicked world. The performance is,iudeed, very 
puerile and silly ; but I am always pleased with it, 
as it recals to my mind those happy days when my 
heiirt was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. 
Thejsubject of it was a young girl, wlio really de- 
served all the praises I have bestewed on her. I 
not only had this opinion of her then— but I actu- 
ally think so still, now that the spell is long since 
broken, and tlie enchantment at an end. 

Tune— I am a man unmanied. 

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass. 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that honour warnjs my breast 

I '11 love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de ral,<5 

As bonnie lassies I have seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mein 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 
Is pleasant to the e'e, 
F f f 



( 



410 



reliques. 



But without some better qualities 
She 's no a lass for me. 

But Nflly's looks are blythe aud sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, , 

And fair without a liaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there 's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it 's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns witheut controul. 

Fa I la I de ral, &c. 

Criticism on the or egoing Song. 

Lest my works should be thought below criti- 
cism ; or meet with a ci-itic who, perhaps, will not 
look on them with so candid and favourable an eye; 
I am determined to criticise them myself. 

The first distich of the first stanza, is quite too 
much in tlie flimsy strain of our ordinary street 
ballads : and, on the other hand, the second distich 
is too much in the other extreme. The expression 
is a little aukward, and the sentiments too serious. 
Stanz:! the second, I am well pleased with; and I 
thill k it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part 
of the si'x— the agreeables ; or what in our Scotch 
dialect we call a sweet sonsy lass. The third stanza 
has a little of the flimsy turn in it; and the third line 
has rather too serious a cast. Ihe fourth sUinza 
is a very indifferent one ; the first line is, indeed, all 
in the strain of the second stanza, but the rest is 
mostly expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stan- 
za come finely up to my favourite idea— a srveet 
sonsy loss : the last line, however, halts a little. 
The same sentiments are kept up witli equal spi- 
rit and tenderness in the sixth stanza ; but the se- 
cond and fourth lines, ending witli short syllables, 
hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several 
minute faults ; but I remember I composed it in a 
•wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this liour I never 
recollect it, but my heart melts, my blood sallies at 
the remembrance. 



September. 
• I entirely agi*ee with tliat judicious philosoplier, 
Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sen- 
timents, that remorse is the most painful senti- 
ment that can embitter the human bosom. Any 
ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear uj) tolerably 
well under those calamities, in the procurement of 
which we ourselves have had no hn.ud ■ btit when 
our own follies, or crimes, have made us miserable 



and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and 
at the same time have a proper penitential sense 
of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-com- 
mand. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt onr peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
guish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every othtr circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine :" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added—" Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of this crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purjjose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O. happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul .' 



March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my ex- 
perience of human life, that every man, even the 
worst, has something good about him ; though very 
often nothing else than a happy temperament of 
constitution, inclining him to this or that A-irtue. 
For this reason, no man can say in what degree 
any other person, besides himself, can be, with 
strict justice, called rvicked. Let any of the strict- 
est character for regularity of conduct among us, 
examine impartially, how many vices he has never 
been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
ciynstance intervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was 
out of the line of such temptation ; and what often, 
if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, be- 
cause the world does not know all : I say, any man 
who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the 
faults and crimes, of mankind around lum, w ith a 
brother's eye. 

I have often* courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind, commonly known by the ordina- 
ry phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther than 
was consistent with the safety of my character; 
those who, by thoughtless prodigality or head- 
strong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though 
disgraced by follies, nay sometimes " stained with 
guilt, ***** * * *," 

I have yet found among them, in not a few in- 
stances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, 
generosity, disinterested friendship, aud even mo- 
desty. 



RELIQUES. 



411 



April. 
As I am what the men of the worhl, if they 
knew sucli a man, would call a whimsical mortal, 
I ha\e various sources of pleasure and enjoyment, 
which are, in a manner, jteculiar to myself, or 
some here and there such other out-of-the-way per- 
son. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the 
season of the winter, more than the rest of the 
year. Tliis, I believe, may be partly owing- to my 
misfortunes, giving my mind a melancholy cast ; 
but there is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, fa- 
vourable to every thing great and noble. There 
is scarcely any earthly object gives me more— I do 
not know if I should call it pleasure— but some- 
thing which exalts me, sometlumg which enraptures 
me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, 
or high plantation, in a cloudy wintei'-day, and 
hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, 
and raving over the plain. It is my best season for 
devotion: my mind is rapt uji in a kind of enthu- 
siasm to Eim^ who, in the pompous language of 
the Hebrew bard, " walks on the wings of the 
wind." In one of these seasons, j ust after a train 
of misfortunes, I composed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

An' roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*," 

The joykss winter-day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

I'han all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine I 

Thou Poiv'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be blest, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 



Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ 
•without any real passion, are the most nauseous of 
all conceits ; and I have often thought that no man 
can be a pro:>er critic of love-composition, except 
he himself, in one or more instances, have been a 
Avarm votary of this passion As I have been all 



along a miserable dupe to love, and haA'C been led 
into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
that reason I put the more confidence in my cri- 
tical skill, in distinguishing foppery and conceit, 
from real passion and nature. Wlutiier the fol- 
lowing song will stand the test, I will not pretend 
to say, because it is my own ; only I can say ir 
was, at the time, genuine from the heart. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses inanj-, O, 

The wint'ry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

The weslin wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baTth mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie 's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye O : 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heapt is true^ 
As spotless as shi 's bonnie, O ; 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there be tliat ken me, O , 

But what care I hoW few they be ! 
I'm welcome to my Nannie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive boniiie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugb. 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Hcav'n will sen' me, O. 

Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



March, 1784. 
There -was a certain period of my life that my 
spirit was broke by rtjjeated losses and disasters, 
which threatened, and indeed effVcted, the utter 
ruin of my fortune. My body too was attacked 
by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, 
or confirmed melancholy. In this wrttched state, 
the recollection of which makes me yet shuddvr, J 
hung my hai-p on the willow trees, except in some 
lucid intervals, in one of whicli I comi)osed ihe^ 



i 



fuUowing- 



Dr. Young. 



O Thotc Great Being! what thou av 

Surpasses me to know ; 
Yet sure I am, that known to tlie<^ 

Ave all thy works below. 



412 



RELIQUES. 



i 



Thy creature here before tliee stands, 
All wretched and distrest ; 

Yet sure those ills that wring niy soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ; 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 
To suit some wise design ; 

Then man my soul with firm resolves 
To bear and not repine ! 



April. 
The following song is a wild rhapsody, misera- 
bly deficient in versification, but as the sentiments 
are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that 
reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it 
over. 

SONG. 

Tune— The Weaver and his Shuttle, O. 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O, 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O ; 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a 
farthing, O, 

i'or without an honest manly heart, no man was 
worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world ray course I did deter- 
mine, O, 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great 
was charming, O; 

]My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my 
education, O : 

Kcsolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situa- 
tion, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's 

favour, O ; 
Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frustrate 

each endeavour, O ; 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; sometimes 

by fi'iends forsaken, O ; 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was 

worst mistaken, O. 

Then sOre harassed, and tir'd at last, witli fortune's 

vain delusion, O, 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to 

this conclusion, O : 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; it's good 

or ill untrj'ed, O ; 
• But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I 

would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor \-iew had I ; nor person to 

befriend me, O ; 
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to 

sustain mc, O : 



To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father 

bred me early, O ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for 

fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life 
I'm doom'd to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 
slumber, O ; 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed 
me pain or sorrow, O ; 

I live to day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor- 
row, O. 

But, cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a 
palace, O ; 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all 
her wonted malice, O ; 

I make, indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can 
make it farther, O ; 

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much re- 
gard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little mo- 
ney, O, 

Some unfoi-eseen misfortune comes generally upon 
me, O ; 

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 
natur'd folly, O ; 

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er 
be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unre- 
mitting ardour, O, 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your 
\iew the farther, O ; 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to 
adore you, O, 

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prei"er be- 
fore you, O. 



AprU. 
I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, 
which I shall call the grave and the merry; 
though, by the bye, these terms do not with pro- 
priety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall 
cast into the usual division of those who are goaded 
on by the love of money, and those whose darling 
wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry 
are the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the 
jovial lads Mho have too much fire and spirit to 
have any settled rule of action ; but, without much 
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature : 
the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent— in jiarti- 
cular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural 
temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals 
through life— generally, indeed, in poverty and ob- 
scurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils 
to him, who can sit gravely down and make a re- 
pining comparison between his own situation and 
that of others ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, 
such are, generally, those whose heads are capable 
of all the towerings of genius, and wliose hearts 
are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



RELIQUES. 



413 



August. 
The foregoing: was to have been an elaborate 
dissertation on llie vurious species of men ; but as 
I cannot please myself in the arranjjemcnt of my 
ideas, I must wait till farther experience and ni- 
cer observation, tlirow more light on the subject. 
In the mean time I shall set down the following 
fragment, which, as it is tite genuine language of 
my heart, will enable any body to determine whitli 
of the classes I belong to. 

Green groiv the rashes, 0, 

Green gruiv the rashes, 0, 
The sivcctest hours that e^er I spent, 

Were spent among the lasses, 0. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour tliat passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man. 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

The warly race may riches chace, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 

May a' gae tiipsalteerie, O 1 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'ro nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O ! 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her prentice han' she try'd on man ! 
An' then she made the lasses, O ! 

Greeji grcxv the ras/ies, 0, &r. 



in his way ; as he, who, straining straight forvvai'd, 
and perhaps spattering all about him, gains some 
of life's little eminences, where, after all, he can 
only see and be seen a little more conspicuously, 
than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to 
term the poor, indolent devil he lias left belkind 
him. 



August, 
A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarm- 
ing symptoms of pleurisy or some ether dangerous 
•disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put 
nature on the alarm. 

O Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear .' 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, irf my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Tliou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

Vvhere human rveakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou All Good J for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have, 
Tut, Thou art good; and goodness stil! 

Delighteth to forgi\e. 



As the gi'and end of human life is to cultivat-^ 
an intercourse with tliat Being to wliom we owe 
life, witli every enjoyment that r<j>iders life dc> 
lightful; and to maintain an iiitegrilive conduct 
towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming 
piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members 
for that society of the pious, and tlie good, which 
reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond 
the grave— I do not see that the turn of mind and 
pursuits of such a one as the above verses describe 
—one who spends tlic hours and thoughts which 
the vocations of the day can spare, with Ossian, 
Shaksjjearc, Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. or, 
as the maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a 
song to make or mend ; and at all times some 
heart's-dear bonnie lass in view— I say I do not 
see that tlie turn of miiul and pursuits of suc7i a 
one, are in the least more inimical to the sacred in- 
terests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, 
bustling and straining after the world's riches and 
honours: and I do not see but he may gain heaven 
as well, wJiich, by the bye, is no mean considera- 
tion, who steals through the vale of life, amusing 
himself with every little fiowei that fortune throws 



August. 
Misgivings in the hour of despondency and pros- 
pect of death. 

Why am 1 loth to leave fliis earthly scene* 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ; 
Some drops of joy, witJi draughts of ill between, 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing sionus. 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And jusUy smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul ofre?nce !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert ftiir virtue's way ; 
J'^ gain in folly's path might go astray • 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Tlien how should J fov heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter lieaA'enly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran ? 



414 



RELIQUES. 



O Thon, great governor of all below .' 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Tliee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controuling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 

To rule their torrent in ih' allowed line, 
0, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



Egotisms /roTO mtj own Sensations. 

May. 
I don't well know what is the reason of it, but 
some how or other though I am, when I have a 
mind, pretty generally beloved ; yet. I never could 
get the art of commanding respect*.— I imagine 
it is owing to my beiiig deficient in what Sterne 
calls " that understrapping virtue of iliscretion." 
I am so apt to a lafisus lingiiue, that I sometimes 
think the character of a certain great man, I have 
I'ead of somewhere, is very much apropos to my- 
self—that he was a compound of great talents and 
great folly. N. B. To try if I can discover the 
causes of this wretched infirmity, and, if possible, 
to amend it. 



Tho' mountains frown and desarts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean* 



FRAGMENT. 

Tune— John Anderson, my jo. 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by b.^fore me, 

Aiid bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat* crouded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



FRAGMENT. 

Tune— Daintie Davie. 

There was a lad was born in Kylet, 
But what na day o' what na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 



) 



SONG. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

* There is no doubt that if Burns at any time 
really laboured under this infirmity, he was suc- 
cessful in inquiring into its causes, and also in his 
efforts to amend it. When he was, at a later pe- 
riod of life, introduced into the superior circles of 
society, he did not appear then as a cyphei-, nor 
did he, by any violation of the dictates of common 
sense, give any occasion, even to those who were 
superciliously disposed to look upon him with con- 
tempt. On the contrary, he was conscious of his 
own moral and intellectual worth, and never abated 
an inch of his just claims to due consideration. 
The following extract of a letter from his great 
and good biographer, who was an excellent judge 
of human chai-acter, bears an honourable testimo- 
ny to the habitual firmness, decision, and indepen- 
dence of his mind, which constitute the only solid 
basis of respectability. 

" Burns was a very singular man in the strength 
and variety of his faculties.— I saw him and ojice 
only, in the year 1792, We conversed together 
for about an hour in the street of Dumfries, and 
engaged in some very animated conversation.— 
We differed in our sentiments sufficiently to be 
i-ather vehemently engaged— and tins interview 
gave me a more lively, as well as forcible impres- 
sion of his talents, thait any part of his writijigs. 
He was a great orator,— &.i\ original aud very ver- 
satile genius." 

3c/ October, 1799. 



Robin xvas a rovin'' boij, 

Rantin^ rovin'', rantin* rovin'' }■ 

Robin was a rovin'' boy, 
Rantiti' rovin'' Robin, 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas theii a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo' scho w ha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart aboori them a' ; 
He'll be a credit 'till us a'. 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith quo' scho, I doubt you, sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * # * 
Biit twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessins on thee, Robin ! 

Robin -was a rovin'' boy, 

Rantin'' rovin\ rant'in'' roving 

Robin zvas a rovin'' boy, 
Rantin'' rovin'' Robin. 

* The dove, or wild pigeon. 
t Kyle— a. district of Ayrshire. 



RELlAUES. 



415 



ELEGY 

On the Death of Robert Buisseaur*. 

Now Robin lies in his last laii*, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, %vi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 



To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Exct pt the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhjane or song he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell hira, he was learn'd and Clark, 

Ye roos'd him thenf ! 



though no young pOet, nor young soldier's heai't, 
ever beat more fondly for fame than mine— 

And if there is no other scene of being 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill ;— 
This something at my heart that heaves for room, 
My best, my dearest part was made in vain. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Aug. 



Tjjne— I had a horse and I had nae mair. 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady. 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistiness still I had aye : 

But when I came i-oun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought. 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



August. 
However I am plea;ed with the works of our 
Scots poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, 
and the still more exctUejit Fergusson, yet I am 
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, 
rivers, woods, haughs, &c. innnortalized in such 
celebrated performances, while my dear native 
country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous botli in ancient and mo- 
dern times for a gallant and warlike race of inha- 
bitants ; a country where civil and pai-ticularly re- 
ligious liberty have ever found their first support, 
and the:.- last asylum ; a countrj , the birth-place 
of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and states- 
men, and the scene of many important events re- 
corded in Scottish history, particularly a great 
many of the actions of the glorious IVallace. the 
saviour of his country ; yet, we never have had one 
Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the fertile 
bauks of li'vine, the romantic woodlands and se- 
questered scenes on Aire, and the healthy moun- 
tainous source, and winding sweep of Doon, emu- 
late Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a 
complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am 
far unequal to the task, both in native genius and 
education^. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, 

* Ruisseaux—a play on his own name. 

t 2'e roos''d—ye prais'd. 

X This kind of feeling appears to have animated 
the poet's bosom at a very early period of his life. 
In a poetical epistle addressed to •' Mrs. Scott, of 
Wauchope house," dated March, 1787, he alludes 
to the sensations of his early days in the following 
tender strain of sentiment. 

GUIDWIFE. 

I mind it weel, in early date. 
When I was beardless, young, and blate. 
An' first could thresh the barn. 



Sept. 
There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch 
songs, a redundancy of syllables with respect to 
that exactness of accent and measure that the 
English poetry requires, but which glides in, most 
melodiously, with the respective tunes to which 
they are set. For instance, the fine old sojig of 
The Mill, Mill, 0, to give it a plain prosaic read- 
ing, it halts prodigiiHisly out of measure i on the 
other hand, the song set to the same tune in 
Bremner's collection of Scotch songs, which be- 
gins " To Fanny fair could I impart, (zirc." it is 
most exact measure, and yet, let ihem both be 
sung before a real critic, one above the biasses of 
prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,— how 
fiat and spiritless will the List appear, how trite, 
and lamely methodical, compared with the wild- 
warbling cadence, tlie heart-uioving melody of the 
first !— This is particularly the case with all those 
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. 
There is a degree of wild irregularity in many of 
the compositions and fragments which are daily 
sung to them by compeers, the common people — a 
certain happy arrangement of old Scotch syllables. 

Or baud a yokin at the pleugh. 
An' tho' fu' foughten sair eneugh, 
Yet unco proud to learn. 

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power), 
A wish, that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a song at least. 

The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turned my weeding heuk aside. 

An' sj>ar'd the symbol dear. 



( 



416 



KELiqUES. 



and jtt, vciy frequently, nolliing;, not even like 
rhyme or sameness of jingle at the ends of the 
lines. Tliis has made me sometimes imagine that, 
perhaps, it might be possible for a Scotch poet, 
■with a nice judicious ear, to set compositions to 
many of our most favourite airs, particularly that 
class of them mentioned above, independent of 
rhyme altogether. 



found out afterwards that what she told me of a 
pre-engagement was true ; but it cost me some 
heart-achs to get rid of the affair. 

I have even tried to imitate in this extempajfljj 
thing, the irregularity of the rhyme, whicl^ 
when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on 
the ear. 

FRAGMENT. 



) 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting ten- 
derness, in some of our ancient ballads, which show 
them to be the work of a masterly hand ; and it 
has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect, 
that such glorious old bards— bards who, very pro- 
bably, owed all their talents to native genius, yet 
have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of 
disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such 
fine strokes of nature— that their very names (O, 
how mortifying to a bard's vanity !) are now " bu- 
ried among the wreck of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well; the last, the 
meanest of the muses' train— one who, though far 
inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and 
with trembling wing would sometimes soar after 
you— a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sym- 
pathetic pang to your memoi-y ! Some of you tell 
VIS, with all the charms of verse, that you have 
been unfortunate in the world— unfortunate in 
love : he too has felt the loss of his little fortune, 
the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of 
the woman he adored. Like you, all bis consola- 
tion was his muse : she taught hiu} in rustic mea- 
sures to complain. Happy could he have done it 
with your strength of imagination and flow of 
verse. May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! 
and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which 
this world rarely gives to the lieart tuned to all 
the feelings of poesy and love ! 



Scpi. 
The following fragment is done* something in 
imitation of the manner of a noble old Scotch 
piece called IM'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the 
tune of Galla Water. My Montgomerie's Peggy 
was my deity for six or eight months. She had 
been bred (though, as the w orld says, without any 
just pretence for it) in a style of life rather elc- 
ganf— but as Vanbrugh says in one of his come- 
dies, " My d ■ d star found me out" there too ; 
for though I began the aftair merely in a gaiete de 
ccertr, or, to tell the truth, which will scarcely be 
believed, a vanity of showing my parts in court- 
ship, particularly my abilities at a billet-doux, 
which I always piqued myself upon, made me lay 
siege to her ; and when, as I always do in my fool- 
ish gallantries, I had battered myself into a very 
w arm affection for her, she told nle, one da) , in a 
flag of truce, that her fortress had been some time 
before the rightful property of another ; but, with 
the greatest friendship and politeness, she offered 
me every alliance except actual possession. I 

* This passage explains the love-letters to Peggy. 



Tune— Gallawater. 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be. 

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 

And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 

The shariu't with Montgomeiie's Peggy. 



September. 
There is another fragment in imitation of an 
old Scotch song, well known among the country 
ingle sides.— I cannot tell the name, neither of the 
song or the tune, but they are in fine unison with 
one another. By the w ay, these old Scottish songs 
are so nobly sentimental, that when one would 
compose them, to south the tune, as our Scotch 
phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to 
catch the inspiration, and raise the bard into that 
glorious enthusiasm, so stror.gly characteristic of 
our old Scotch poetry. 1 shall here set down one 
verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark 
the song and tune I meap, and likewise as a debt 
I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse 
has lighted up my flame a thousand times. 

" When clouds in skies do come together 
To hide the brightness of the sun, 

There will surely be some pleasant weather 
When a' their storms are past and gone*." 

Though fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 

!6ut if success I must never find. 
Then come, misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an extempore, under the pres- 
sure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, in- 
deed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 

* Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly 1;> 
ments before tliis verse. (This is the author^s 
note.) 



KELiqUES. 



417 



just at the close of that dreadful period mention- 
ed pHgt' vii* ; and thoug^h tht.' weather has brigh- 
tened up a little with mc, yet there has always 
been since a tempest brewing round me in the 
grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see 
will some time or other, perhaps ere long-, over- 
whelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to 
pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness.— However, 
as I hope my poor country muse, who, all rusi.ic, 
awkward, and unpolished as she is, has luoi'e 
charms for me than any other of tlie pit^asures of 
life beside— as I hope she will not then desert me, 
I may, even then, learn to be, if not haj)])y, at 
least easy, and south a sang to sooth my misery. 

'Twas at the same time I set about composing 
an air in the old Scotch style.— I am not musical 
scholar enough to prick down my tune properly, 
so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no 
great matter, but the following were the verses I 
Composed to suit it : 

O raging fortune's M'ithering blast 

.Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
My stem was fair, my bud was greert, 

My blossom sweet did blow ; O 

* Of the original MS. see the remark, March, 
1784, beginning, " There ivas a certain period,"' 
&c. 



The dew fell fresli, (he sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow ; O 

But luckless fortune's aortJu rn storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that tli 
above verses just went through the whole air. 



" October, 1735. 

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the 
world, chance to throw his eyes over tht^st psiges, 
let him pay a warm atti-ntion to the following ob- 
servations; as I assure him tluy are the fruit of a 
poor devils dear-bought experience.- 1 hiive, lite- 
rally, like tliat great poet and great g:!llant, and, 
by consequence, that great fool, Solomon,—" turn- 
ed my eyes to behold nadness and folly."— Nay. I 
have, with all the ardour of a lively, fanciful, and 
whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, 
feeling, poetic heart— shaken hands with their iji- 
toxicating friendship. 

In the first |)lace, let my pupil, as he tenders 
liis own peace, keep up a regular, warm inter- 
course wit!) the Deity. ***** 

(Here the MSS. abruj)tly dose.} 



( 



\ 



i 



FRAGMENTS, 
MISCELLANEOUS REMARKS, he. 



■' Every single obsei-vation that is published by a man of genius, be it ever so trivial, ihould be es- 
teemed of impoitance ; because he speaks from his own impressions : whereas common men x)ubUsh 
common things, which they have perhaps gleaned from frivolous writers." 

Shenstone. 



I LIRE to have quotations for every occasion : 
they give one's ideas so pat, and save one the trou- 
ble of finding expressions adequate to one's feel- 
ings. I think it is one of tlie greatest pleasures 
attending a poetic genius, that we can give our 
woes, cares, joys, loves, &;c. an embodied form in 
verse ; which, to me, is ever immediate ease. 
Goldsmith says finely of his muse— 

" Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe ; 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so." 



What a creature is man ! A little alarm last 
night, and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such 
a revolution on my spirits ! There is no philoso- 
phy, no divinity, that comes half so much home to 
the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves 
Heaven : 'tis the wild raving of an imaginary 
hero in bedlam. 



much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as 
property ; and those wJio seem to doubt, or deny 
us what is justly ours, let us either pity their pre- 
judices, or despise their judgment. 

I know you will say this is self-conceit ; but I 
call it self-knowledge : the one is the overweening 
opmion of a fool, who fancies himself to be, 
what he wishes himself to be thought ; the other 
is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has 
thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. 
Without this standard, this column, in our mind, 
we are perpetually at the mercy of the petulance, 
the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very weak- 
ness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures. 

Away, then, with disquietudes ! Let us pray 
with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan, " L— «l 
send us a gude conceit o'oursel!" Or, in tin- 
words of the old sang, 

" Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, 
And I'll never mind any such foes." 



My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is, his 
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be re- 
medied—in short, the wild, broken frag-ments of a 
noble, exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more 
by saying he was a favourite hero of mine. 



I am just risen from a two-hours bout after sup- 
per, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish no- 
thing in common with me- but the port. " One." 
'Tis now " witching time of night ;" and whatever 
is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it 
to enchantments and spells ; for I can't look over 
it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care for 
to-mon-ow's criticisms on it. 



Your thoughts on religion sJjall be welcome. 
You may perhaps distrust me when I say 'tis also 
7mj favourite topic ; i)ut mine is the religion qi 
the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controver- 
sial divinity ; as I firmly believe that every ho- 
nest, upright man, of whatever sect. Mill be ac- 
cepted of the Deity. I despise the superstition of 
a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. 



Why have I not heard from you ? To-day I well 
expected it ; and before supper, when a letter tu 
me was announced, my heart danced with rapture ; 
but behold ! 'twas son>e fool who had taken it into 
his head to turn poet ; and made an offering of the 
fir»t fruits of his nonsense. 



We ought, when Ave wish to be economists in 
happiness ; we ought, in the first place, to fix the 
standard of our own character ; and when, on full 
examination, we know where we stand, and how 



I believe there is no holding converse, or caiTy. 
ing on correspondence, with an amiable fine wo. 



iiiO 



llKLiqUES. 



man, without some mixture ol" that delicious pas- 
sion, whtse ir.fst devoted slave I have more than 
once liad tlic honour of being- : but why be hurt 
or oit'er.ded on triPt account ? Can no lionest man 
have a piepossesslou for a fine woman, bat he must 
run his head against an intrigue ? Take a little of 
the tender witchcraft of love, and add to it the ge- 
nerous, the honorable sentiments of manly friend- 
ship; and I kn<nv but one jnore delightful morsel, 
which ft \v, few in any rank, ever taste. Such a 
coiiij>osiiion is like adding ert-am to strawberries— 
knot only gives the fruit a more elegajit richness, 
but lias a peculiar deliciousness of its owji. 



Nothing astonishes rae more, when a little sick- 
ness clogs the V hi els o*' lift, than the thoughtless 
career we run in the hour of health. " None saith, 
where is God, my maker, that givv.-th me songs 
in the night ; who teacheth us m.n-t knowledge 
than the b. iists of tlie field, and more understand- 
ing than the fowls of the air." 



I had a letter froiii my old friend a while ago, 
but it v.as so dry. so distant, so like a card to one 
of his clients, tln.t I could scarce bear to ri-ad it. 
Ht is ;i good, hon; sr feilow ; and caji write a friend- 
ly If ttf r. which would do equal honour to his head 
and his heart, as a whole sht-af of his letters I have 
by me will witi ess ; and though Fame does not 
blov/ hrr trumpet at my approach noiv. as she did 
then, whin he first honoured me with his friend- 
ship*, yet 1 am as proud as ever; aj>.d vvhe;; 1 am 
la:d in my grave, I wish to be stretched ;>t my full 
lei-gth, ihat I may occupy every inch of ground 
which 1 have a riglu to. 



You would laugh, were you to see me where I 
am just now :— Here am I set. a solitary hermit, in 
the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary 
botilfc of wine by me— as grave and stupid as an 
owi— but like that owl, still faithful to my old sojig ; 
in confinnation of wliich. my dear * * * 

* here is j our good health i May the" hand- 

wal'd bennisons o' heaven bk-ss your bonie face; 
and the wraich wha skellies at your weelfare,may 
th, auld tinkier deil get Lim to clout his rotten 
heart ! Amen ! 



1 mentio}ied to yon my letter to Dr. Moore, giving 
an Jiceonnt of my life ; it is truth, every word of 
it; and will gi%'e you the just idea of a man whom 
you have honoured with your fVieiidship. 1 wish 
you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of 
my trade are, a strange ivill o' rvlsf) being, the 
victim, too frequently, of much in.prudence and 



* Alluding to the time of his first appearance in 
F-dinl)urgb. 



many follies. My great constituent elements are 
pride and passion. I'he first I have endeavoured 
to humanize into integrity and honour; the latter 
makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthu- 
siasm, in love, religion, or friendship ; either of 
them, or all together, as I happen to be inspired. 



What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of 
the ever)-day children of the world ! 'Tis the un- 
meaiiing toyijig of the younglings of the fields and 
for. sts : but where sentiment and fancy unite 
their sweets ; where taste and delicacy refine ; 
where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives 
strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught 
is the hour of tender endearment .'—beauty and 
grace in the arms of truth and honour, in all the 
luxury of mutual lore I 

Iimocence 

Looks gaily smiling on ; while rosy pleasure 
Hill' s young desire amid her flowery wreath, 
And pours hv-r cup luxuriant ; mantling high 
The sparkling heavenly vintage, love SiTaAbllss ! 



Those .of either sex, but particularly the female, 
who are lukewarm in the most important of all 
things, rtiigion — '" O my soul, come not thou into 
their secret !" I will lay hefore you tbe outlines of 
my belief. He, who is our author and preserver, 
and will one day be our judge, must be (not for 
his sake in the way of duty, but from the native 
inxpulse of our hearts) the object of our reveren- 
tial awe, and grateful adoration. He is almighty 
auu all-bounteous ; we arc weak and dependent ; 
hejice, ])rayer and everj other sort of devotion. — 
'• He is not williijg that any should perish, but 
that all should come to everlasting life ;" conse- 
queutl} it must be in every one's power to embrace 
his oifer of "' everlasting life ;'' otherwise he could 
not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A 
mind pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, 
truth, and charity, thougli it does not7?j£-77.'liea\en, 
yet is an absolutely necessary pre-requisite, with- 
out which heaven can neither be obtained nor en- 
joyed : and, by divine promise, such a mind sliall' 
nev-r fitil of attaining '' everlasting life :" hence, 
the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable, 
exclude themselves from eternal bliss, by their un- 
fitness for enjo)ing it. The Supreme Being has 
put the immediate administration of all this, for 
wise and good ends known to himself, into the 
hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, whose 
relation to him wt cannot comprehend, but whose 
relation to us is a Guide and Saviour ; and who, 
except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will 
bring us all, though various ways, and by various 
means, to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my friend. My creed is 
pi-etty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jomie 
Dca?r.'s grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire : 
'• Lord, grant that we may lead a gude life i foi a 
gude life maks a gnde end, at least it helps 
wed!" 



HELiqUES. 



421 



A Mother'* s Address to her Infant*. 



My blessiiis upon thy swciH, wee lippie ! 

My bl;-ssuis upon thy bonuie eV brie ! 
Tliy smiles are sae like my blythc sog^i r laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 



our feelings a liAle hie-lier and bolder. A fellow- 
creature who h-aves us. who spurns without just 
cause, thouph once our bosoiii friend— up with a 
little honest pride— let him go ! 



I am an odd being' : sonae yet unnamed feelings, 
things, not principles, but better than h hi nis, car- 
ry me farther than boasted reason ever did a phi- 
losopher. 



A decent means of liveliliood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one 
firm, trusty friend ; can any body that has these 
be said to be unhai>py ? 



There's naethin like the honest nappy ! 
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy. 
Or women sonsie, saft, an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' morn, 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn. 

I've seen me daez't upon a time ; 
I scarce could wink or see a stime ; 
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 
Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As glegg's a whittle ! 



Coarse minds ai*e not aware how much they in- 
jure the keenly-feeling tie of bosom friendship, 
when, in their foolish officiousness, they mention 
what nobody cares for recollecting. People of 
nice sensibility, and generous minds, have a certain 
intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or 
lowered, or ev^n too nearly apx)roached. 



Some days, some nights, nay some honrs^ like 
the " ten rigliteous persons in Sodom," save the 
•rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable months and 
years of life. 



To be feelingly alive to kindness and unkind- 
ness, is a charming female character. 



The dignified and dignifying consciousness of 
an honest man, and the well-groU|ndcd trust in ap- 
proving heaven, are two most substantial sources 
of happiness. 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! " Give 
me to feel another's woe ;" and continue with me 
that dear-lov'd friend that feels with mine ! 



Your religious sentiments I revere. If you have, 
on some suspicions evidence, from some lying ora- 
cle, learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly 
important a matter as real religion, you have much 
misconstrued your friend. " I am not mad, most 
noble Festus I" Have you ever met a perfect 
character ? Do we not sometimes rather exchange 
faults than get rid of them ' For instance : I am 
perhaps tired with and shocked at a life, too much 
the prey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless 
follies ; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and 
statedly pious ; I say statedly, because the most un- 
affected devotion is not at all inconsistent with my 
first character. I join the world in congratulating 
myself on the happy eliange. But let me pry more 
narrowly into this affi^ir • have I, at bottom, any 
thing of a seci-et pride in these endowments aiul 
emendations ? have I nothing of a presbyteiian 
sourness, a hypercritical severity, when I survey 
my less regular neighbours ? In a word, hav<; I 
missed all those nameless and innnberless modifi- 
cations of indistinct selTishness, which are so ijear 
our own eyes, that we can scarce bring them with- 
in our sphere of vision, and which the known spot- 
less cambric of our character hides from the ordi- 
nary observer ? 



I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that 
where I fondly love or highly esteem, I cannot 
bear reproach. 



If I have robbed you of a friend, God forgive 
me. But be comforted: let us raise the tone of 

* These tender lines were .idded by the poet, to 
old words that he had collected, of a song called 
Bonnie Dundee, which appeared for the first time 
in i)rint in the Musical Museum, R. 



My definition of worth is short: truth and hu- 
manity respecting our fellow-creatures ; reverence 
and humility in the presence of that Being, my 
Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every rea- 
son to believe, will one day be my Judge. The 
first part of my definition is the creature of unbi- 
assed instinct ; the last is the child of after refiec- 
tion. Where I foun<l these two essentials, I would 
gently note, and sliglitly mention, any attendant 
flaws— flaws, the marks, the conser[uences of hu- 
man nature. 



422 



RELIQUES. 



How wretched is the condition of one who is 
haunted witli conscious guilt, aud trembling under 
»the idea of dreaded vengeance ! and what a placid 
calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, 
to bosom the kind feelings of friendship and the 
fond throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of an- 
ger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the 
sullen frost of lowering resentment, or the corrod- 
ing poison of withered en-vy ! They eat up the 
immortal part of man! If they spent their fury 
only on the unfortunate objects of them, it would 
be something in their favour ; but these miserable 
passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and 
master. 

Thou, Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, 
and love ! do thou give me the social heart that 
kindly tastes of every man's cup ! Is it a draught 
of joy ? — warm and open ray heart to shai-e it with 
cordial, unen vying rejoicing! Is it the bitter po- 
tion of sorrow?— melt my heart with sincerely sjtu- 
pathetic woe ! Above all, give me the manly mind, 
that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, 
those sentiments which I would wish to be tliought 
to possess ! The friend of my soul — there may 1 
never deviate from the firmest fidelity, and most 
active kindness ! there may the most sacred, invio- 
late honour, the most faithful, kindling constancy, 
ever watch and animate my every thought and 
imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following lines 
spoken of religion? 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright ; 
-Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 

few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart ; 
Within the breast bids piirest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

' I met with these verses verj' early in life, and 
was so delighted with them, that I have them by 
me, copied at school. 



I have heard and read a good deal of philoso- 
phy, benevolence, and greatness of soul ; and when 
rounded wth the flourish of declamatory- periods, 
or poured in the mellifluence of Parnassian mea- 
sure, they have a tolerable effect on a musical ear ; 
but when all these high-sounding professions are 
compared with the very act and deed, as it is usu- 
ally performed, I do not think there is any thing 
in or belonging to human nature so badly dispro- 
portionate. In fact, were it not for a very few of 
our kind, among whom an honoured friend of 
mine, whom to you, sir, I will not name, is a dis- 
tinguished instance, the very existence of magna- 
nimity, generosity, and all their kindred virtues, 
would be as much a question with metaphysicians 
as the existence of witchcraft. 



There is no time when the conscious, thrilling 
chords of love and friendship give such delight, as 
in the pensive hour of what Thomson calls " Phi- 
losophic Melancholy." The family of misfortune, 
a numerrus group of brothers and sisters ! they 
need a resting place to their souls. Unnoticed, 
often condemned by the world ; in some degree, 
perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the 
full enjoj-ment of ardent love, delicate tender en- 
dearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In this light I have often admired religion. In 
proportion as we are wrung with grief, or dis- 
tracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate 
Deity, an Ahnighty Protector, are doubly dear. 



I have been this morning taking a peep through^ 
as Young finely says, " the dark postern of time 
long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful prospect ! What a 
tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly ! My 
life reminded me of a ruined temple. What 
strength, what proportion in some parts ! what 
unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others ! I 
kneeled down befoi'e the Father of Mercies, and 
said, " Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and 
in thy sight am no more worthy to be called thy 
son." I rose, eased and strengthened. 



I 



LETTERS 
FKOM WILLIAM BURNS, 



AND 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS DEATH. 



i 



i 



LETTERS 
FROM WILLIAM BURNS TO THE POET. 



The Editor conceived that it might not be un- 
interesting to the admirers of Burns, to peruse tlie 
following letters, selected fi'om a greater number 
that have fallen into his hands. They are the 
genuine and artless productions of his younger 
brother, IVilUam Burns, a joung man, who, after 
having ser^'ed an ai)preuticeship to the trade of a 
saddler, took his road towards the south, and hav- 
ing resided a short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 
arrived in London, where he died of a putrid fever 
iii the year 1790. 

If the reader supposes he shall meet in these 
letters that vivacity of genius, which the near re- 
lationship of the writer to the poet might lead him 
to expect, he will be disappointed. They contain, 
indeed, little more than the common transactions 
incident to the humble line of life of their author, 
expressed in simple and unaffected language. But 
to those whose admiration and affection for the 
poet extend to his relations and concerns, they are 
not without tlieir value. They demonstrate the 
kind and fraternal attachment of Burns, in a strong 
and amiable point of view ; they form an addition- 
al eulogy on the memory of the excellent father, 
who had given all his sons an education superior 
to their situation in life, and assiduously inculcat- 
ed upon them the best principles of virtue and mo- 
rality ; and they exhibit the picture of a contented 
and uncontaminated youth, who, as he would nev- 
er have attempted the dangerous heights to w liich 
the poet aspired, would never have experienced 
those pangs of disappointment and remorse wliich 
incessantly agitated his bosom : but would 

" Through the calm sequestered vale of life. 
Have kept the noiseless tenour of his way." 



No. L 

To Mr. ROBERT BURNS, EUisland. 

Longtorvn, Feb. 15, 1789. 

Dear sir. 

As I am now in a )nanner only entering into 
the world, I begin this our correspondence, with a 
view of being a gainer by your advice, more than 
ever you can be by any thing I can write jou of 
what I see, or %\ hat I hear, in the course of my 
wanderings. I know not how it Iiappened, but 
you were more shy of your counsel than I could 
have wished, the time I staid with you ; whether 
it was because you thought it would disgust me to 



have my faults freely told me while I was dependent 
on you ; or whether it was because that you saw 
by my indolent disposition, your instructions would 
have no effect, I cannot determine ; but if it pro- 
ceeded from any of the above causes, the reason of 
withholding your admonition is now done away, 
for I now stand on my own bottom, and that indo- 
lence, which I am very conscious of, is something 
rubbed off, by being called to act in life, whether 
I will or not ; and my inexperience, which I daily 
feel, makes me wish for that advice which you are 
so able to give, and which I can only expect from 
you or Gilbert, since the loss of the kindest and 
ablest of fathers. 

The morning after I went from the Isle, I left 
Dumfries about five o'clock, and came to Annan 
to breakfast, and staid about an hour ; and I reach- 
ed this place about two o'clock. I have got work 
here, and I intend to stay a month or six weeks, 
and then go forward, as I wish to be at York about 
the latter end of summer, where I i)ropose to spend 
next winter, and go on for London in the spring. 

I have the promise of seven shillings a week 
from Mr. Proctor, wliile I stay here, and sixpence 
more if he succeeds himself, for Ive has only new 
begun trade here. I am to pay four shillings per 
week of board wages, so that my neat income here 
will be much the same as in Dumfries. 

Tiie inclosed you will send to Gilbert with the 
first opportunity. Please to send me the first 
Wednesday after you receive tins, by the Carlisle 
waggon, two of my coarse shirts, one of my best 
linen ones, my velveteen vest, and a neckcloth ; 
write to me along with them, and direct to me, 
Saddler, in Longtown, and they will not miscarry, 
for I am boarded in the waggoner's house. You 
may either let them be given into the waggon, or 
send them to Coiilthard and Gellebourn's shop, 
and they will forward them. Pi-ay write me often 
while I stay here, I wisli you would send me a 
letter, though never so small, every week, for they 
will be no expense to me, and but little trouble to 
you. Please to give my best Wishes to my sister-in- 
law, and believe me to be your affectionate 
And obliged brother, 
WILLIAM BURNS. 

P. S. The great coat you gave me at parting 
did me singular service the day 1 came here, and 
merits my hearty thanks. From what has been 
said, the conclusion is this ; that my hearty thanks 
and my best wishes are all that you and my sister 
must expect from 

W. B 
Hhh 



i 



4^i6 



RELIQUESJ. 



No. 11. 

Neivcastle, 24th Jan. 1790. 

Dear brother, 

I wrotf you about six weeks ago, and have ex- 
pected to hear from you every post since, but I 
suppose your excise business, which you hinted at 
in your last, has prevented you from writing. By 
the bye, when and how have you got in the excise ; 
and what division have you got about Dumfries ? 
These questions please to answer in your next, if 
more important matter do not occur. But in the 
mean time let me have the letter to John Murdoch, 
which Gilbert wrote me 3011 meant to send ; in- 
close it in your's to me, and let me have them as 
soon as possible, for I intend to sail for London, in 
a fortnight, or three weeks at farthest. 

You promised me, when I was intending to go 
to Edinburgh, to write me some instructions about 
behaviour in companies rather above my station, to 
which I might be eventually introduced. As I may 
be introduced into such companies at Murdoch's, 
or on his account when I go to London, 1 wish 
you would write me some such instructions now : 
I never had more need of them, for having spent 
little of my time in company of any sort since 
I came to Newcastle, I have almost forgot the 
couinion civilities of life. To these instructions, 
pray add some of a moral kind, for though (either 
through the strength of early impressions, or the 
frigidity of my constitutiou) I have hitherto with- 
stood the temptation to those vices, to which j oung 
fellows of my station and time of life are so much 
addicted, yet, I do not know if my virtue will be 
able to withstand the more powerful temptations 
of th^ metropolis: yet, through God's assistance 
and your instructions,! hope to weather the storm. 

Give the compliments of the season and my love 
fo my sisters, and all the rest of your family. Tell 
Gilbert the first time you write him, that I am 
well, and that I will write him either when I sail 
or when I arrive at London. 

I am, &c. 

W. B. 



will be) it is hard to get a place : however, I 
don't yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and 
shall endeavour, if possible, to sail within three or 
four points of the wind. The encouragement here 
is not what I expected, wages being very low in 
proportion to the expense of living, but yet. if I 
can only lay by the money that is spent by others 
in my situation in dissipation and riot. I expect 
soon to return you the money I borrowed of you, 
and live comfortably besides. 

In the mean time I wish you would send up all 
my best linen shirts to London, which you may ea- 
sily do by sending them to some of your Edinburgh 
friends, to be shipped from Leith. Some of them 
are too little ; don't send any but w hat are good ; 
and I wish one of my sisters could find as much 
time as to trim ray shirts at the breast, for there 
is no such thing to be seen here as a plain shirt, 
even for wearing, which is what I want these for. 
I mean to get one or two new shirts here for Sun- 
days, but 1 assure you that linen here is a very 
expensive article. I am going to write to Gilbert 
to send me an Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it 
he will send it to you, and you may send it with 
the shirts, but I expect to hear from you before 
that time. The cheese I could get here ; but I 
Will have a pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in 
London, and the expense of sending it will be lit- 
tle, as you are sending the shirts any how. 

I write this by J. Stevenson, in his lodgings, 
while he is writuig to Gilbert. He is well and 
hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to 
him : we were at Covent Garden chapel this fore- 
noon, to hear the Calf preach ; he is grown very 
fat, and is as boisterous as ever*. There is a »vhole 
colony of Kilmarnock people here, so we don't 
want for acquaintance. 

Remember me to my sisters and all the family. 
I shall give you all the observations I have made 
in London in my next, when I shall have seen 
more of it. 

I am, dear brother, yours, &c. 

W. B. 



No. IV. 



No. IIL 



From Mr. MURDOCH to the BARD, 



> 



London, 2Ut March, 1790. 
Dear brother, 

I ha^e been here three weeks come Tuesdaj", 
and would have written to you sooner, but was 
not settled in a place of work.— We were ten days 
on our passage from Shields ; the weather being 
calm. I >vas not sick, except one day when it blew 
prttty hard. I got into work the Friday after I 
came to town ; I wrought there only eight days, 
thtir job being done. I got work again in a shop 
in the Strand, the next day after I left my former 
master. It is only a temporary place, but I expect 
to be settled soon in a shop to my mind, although 
it will be a harder task than I at first imagined, 
for there are such swarms of fresh hands just come 
from the country, that the tow n is quite overstock- 
ed, and, except one is a i)articular good workman 
(.which you know I am not, nor I am afraid ever 



Giving an account of the death of his brother 
William. 

Hart-street, Bloomsbury-Square, London, 
September 14th, 1790. 
]My dear friend. 

Yours of the 16th of July I received on the 
26th, in the afternoon, per favour of my friend 
Mr. Kennedy, and at the same time was informed 
that jour brother was ill. Being engaged in bu- 
siness till late that evening, I set out next morn- 
ing to see him, and had thought of three or four 
medical gentlemen of my acquaintance, to one or 
other of whom I might apply for advice, provided 
it should be necessary. But when I went to Mr, 
Barber's, to my great astonishment and heart-felt 



Vide Poetical Address to the Calf, p. 24S. 



RBLiqUBS. 



42r 



Sj/'ief, I found that my young A-iend bad, on Sa- 
turday, bid an everlasting farewil to all sublunary 
things.— It was about a fortnight before that he 
had found me out, by Mr. Stevenson's accidental- 
ly calling at my shop to buy something. We had 
only one interview, and that was highly entertain- 
ing to me in several respects. He mentioi.edsome 
instruction I had given him when very young, to 
vhich he said he owed, in a great measure the 
philanthropy he possessed.— He also took notice of 
my exhorting you all, when I wrote, about < ight 
years ago, to the man who, of all mankind that I 
ever knew, stood highest in my esteem, " not to 
let go your integrity."— You may easily conceive 
that such conversation was both pleasing and en- 
couraging to me : I anticipated a deal of rational 
happiness from future conversations.— Vain are 
our expectations and hopes. They are so almost 
always — perhaps (nay, certainly) for our good. 
Were it not for disappointed hopes, we could 
hardly spend a thought on another state of exis- 
tence, or be in any degree reconciled to the quit- 
ting of this. 

I know of no one source of consolation to those 
•who have lost young relatives equal to that of 
their being of a good disposition, and of a prorais» 
Wig character. 



Be assured, my dear friend, that I cordially 
sympathize witli you all, and particularly with 
Mrs. Hums, who is undoubtedly one of the most 
tender and affectio.iate mothers that ever liv(d. 
Rtiueinber nie to her in the most friendly maniier, 
when you see her, or write.— Please prestiit my 
best compliments to Mrs. K. Burns, and to your 
brother and sisters. There is no occasion for me 
to exhort you to filial duty, and to use your united 
endeavours in rendering the evening of life as 
comfortable as possibh to a mother, who has dedi- 
cated so great a part of it in promoting your tem- 
poral and spiritual welfare. 

Your letter (o Dr. Moore, I delivered at his 
house, and shall most likely know your opinion 
of Zeluco, the first time I meet with him. I wish 
and hope for a long letter. Be particular about 
your mother's health. I hope she is too much a 
Christian to be afflicted above measure, or to sor- 
row as those who have no hope. 

One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to vi« 
sit you all : but I am commonly disappointed in 
what I most ardently wish for. 
I am, 

Dear sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



i 



\ 



•m 



POETRY, 



i 



#♦ 



\ 



EPISTLES IN VERSE, 



To J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. Utk, 1785. 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny, 
Guid lit alth, hale bans, an' weather bonny; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' branny 

To clear your head. 

May boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kii'k your rickles afF their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapraast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 



Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vita 

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' wit^f. 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ana an' twenty 1 

But stooks are cowpet* wi' the blast, 
An' now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranterf. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 



I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 
But bittei-, daudin showers hae watit, 
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle warl^ 
An' took my jocteleg* an' whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa months that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw nameless, dateless lettei", 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wivesl" an' whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Tour friendship, sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak' objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kyc be gaun without the hei*d, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard. 

An' theckit right, 
1 mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

* Jocteleg— a knife. 

ir BroTvster wivw—alehotise wivCj; 



Inclosing a copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which 
he had requested. 

Sept. 17th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage^: rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it. 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bai-die, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 

* Corvpet'-tximhled over. 

t Rab the Ranter— It is very probable that the 
poet thus named himself after the border piper, 
so spiritedly introduced in the popular song of 
Maggie Lauder :— 

" For I'm a piper to my trade. 

My name is Rab the Ranter ; 
The lasses loup as they were daft, 

When I blaw up my chanter." 

X Gw^roiya^e— Running in a confused, disorderly 
raannei-, like boys when leaving school. 



( 



432 

Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Louse h-ll upon me. 



RELIQUES. 



> 



But I gae mad at their g'rimaces, 
Theii* sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces. 
Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whaws oseed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

^ Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun*, miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't liim, 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him ? 

See hirat the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed ; 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. 
But twenty times, I rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a lass. 
An honest man may like a glass. 
But mean revenge an' malice fause 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what ? to g^e their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee j 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, 
An' far unworthy of thy train, 
With trembling voice I tune my strain 
To join with those, 

* Gavin Hamilton, esq. 

+ The poet has introduced the two first lines of 
this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. 
Hamilton. 



Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 
In spite of foes r 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels^ even wi' holy robes. 

But hellish spirit. 

O AjT, my dear, my native ground. 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too renown'd. 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fara'd; 
An' some, by wliom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even sir, by them your heart's esteem'd 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wraug'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



To GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. Mauchline. 

(Recommending a boy.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 

I hold it, sir, my bounden duty. 
To warn you how that master Tootie, 
Alias, laird M'Gaun*, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 

An' wad hae don't aff ban' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him. 
Like sci'apin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them : 
As lieve then I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be. 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't it, he's gleg enough, 
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to sivear i 



* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a 
dealer in cows. It was his common practice to 
cut the nicks or markings from the horns of cat- 
tle, to disguise their age.— He was an artful, trick- 
contriving character ; hence he is called a snick' 
draiver. In the poet's " Address to the Dell,''* 
he styles that august personage an auld, snick- 
draxving dog ! E. 



RELiqUES. 



^35 



But then \vi' ijou, he'll be sac taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'U catechise him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell ; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

—Aye when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye, then, maun be then 

Frae home this comin' Friday, 
Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 

Tn Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 

To meet the warlcTs •worm j 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles* an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I keu he well a snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you, 
Ye ken your laureat scorns : 
The p^-ay'r still, you share still, 
-Of grateful minstrel Burns. 



To Mr. M'ADAM, of Craigen-Gillan, 

la answer to an obliging letter he sent in the com- 
mencement of Jiiy poetic career. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me pi-oud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
1*11 cock ray nose aboou them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craiigen-Gillan ! 

*Twas noble, sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 

To g^ant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 

Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by hist banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye.— 

And when those legs to gude, warm kail_, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

A barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' raony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosorae kimmers ! 



And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry ! 

And may he wear an auld man's beaM, 
A credit to his country. 



To CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Glenriddel. 

(Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.") 

Ellis/and, Monday evening. 

Your news and review, sir, I've read through anjl 
through, sir, 

With little admiring or blaming : 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers anfl 
hewers, 

Are j udges of mortar and stone, sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness*; 

Bestowed on your servant, the poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, sir, should know it ! 



To TERRAUGHTY*, 

On his Birth-Day. 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief I 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief I 
Inspir'd I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf. 

This natal mornj 
I see thy life is stuff o' pi-ief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescoi-e eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it.' 

If envious btickies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure ! 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
Hay coulhie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 



i 



* The airles— e&vnest'TCLoney, 
t Diog;enes> 



Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, iicjn- Dum- 



fries. 



Hi 



43'4 



RELIQUES, 



Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 



To a LADY, 
With a present of a pair of Drinking Glasses. 



Clarinda, take this little boon, 
This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous julpe, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind!'''' 

" To those -who love us .'"—second fill ; 

But not to those whom sve love ; 
Lest we love those wl»o love not us !— 

A third—" To thee and me. tover^ 



Fair empress of the poet's seal, 
And queen of poetesses ; 



> 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

IN my early years nothing less would ser\'e me 
ihan courting the tragic muse.— I was, I think, 
about eighteen, or nineteen when I sketched the 
outlines of a tragedy forsooth ; but the bursting 
of a cloud of family misfortunes, which had for 
some time threatened us, prevented my farther 
progress. In those days I never wrote down any 
thing ; except a speech or two, the M'hole has es- 
caped my raeraoiy. The following, which I most 
distinctly remember, was an exclamation from a 
great character :— great in occasional instances of 
generosity, and daring at times in villanies. He 
is supposed to meet with a child of misery, and 
exclaims to himself— 



The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y\ 
In sullen vengeance, I disdain'd reply ; 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despaii'ing woe ; 
Th' inquisitor of Spain, the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his ait : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eti, and kick'd him from his sight. 



" All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain. 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness j 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs, 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears indignant I behold th' ojjprcssov 

Xtejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 

Whose unsubmitting h..-.!rt was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless ci-ew, I pity you ; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, 

Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin. 

— O, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you .'" 



THE VOWELS-A Tale. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are 
ply'd, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, sir Abece the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate. 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 
And call the trembling vowels to account.— 

First entered A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! dcform'd, dishonest to the sight .' 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at tTie tyrant's throne I 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 



7Vie folloxving sketch seems to be one of a series 
intended for a projected rvork, under the title of 
" The Poet's Progress." This character ivas 
sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter to 
professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus 
noticed. " The fragment beginning ' A little, 
upright, pert, tart, Sec' / have not shown to 
any man living, till now I send It to you. It 
fonns the postulata, the axioms, the defnition of 
a character, which, if it apptear at all, shall be 
placed in a x'aricty of lights. This particular 
part I send you merely as a sample of my hand 
at portrait sketching.'''' 

SKETCH. 

A little, ijipright, pert, tart, tr'pplijig wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vix>e la bagatelle, et viva Patnour : 
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Fiueeringoft outshines the solid wood: 
His solid sense— by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his seltish craft must mend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin? 
Why is outlandish stuiF sae raeikle couned ? 
Does BLonsense mend like whiskey, when imported 



.43fi 



RELlQCfES. 



Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
"Will try to gif us sargs and plays at liame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he haunt as far as Rome and Greece, 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enougli in Caledonian story, 
Would shew the tragic muse in a' her glory.— 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A dra.i.a worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty Ki.gland and h(-r guiity lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrcntfcb'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

n>r a Shakspeare or an Olway scene. 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish queen! 
Vain all the om!)ipoti net of female charms 
'GaiTist headlong, r-thless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell w ith spirit truly Roman, 
'lo glut the vengeance of a I'ival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil .' 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglasses a\ ere heroes every age : 
An tho' your fatliers, prodigal of life, 
. A Doiiglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perha])s if bowls row right, and right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow whei-e a Douglas leads .' 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take ijie Hiuses' servants by tlu hand; 
Not o:ily here, but patronize, be(riejid them, 
Ana whtie ye justly can commend, commend them; 
And aiblins, when tiiey winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their be«t ! 
Would a' the L.nd do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
"Will gar flame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony|fpier, 
•' Whose aiiglit thae chiels maks a' this bustle 

here ?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
Rut, like good mithers, shore before you strike.— 
And gratefu' still 1 hope ye'll ever find us, 

1 or a' the patronage and njeikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions,* setts, and ranks : 
Cjod help us ! we're btit poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 
On being appointed to the Excise, 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, oh ! the day ! 
Ihat ehirty barm ahould stain my laiWfelB ; 

But— what'll ye say! 



These muvln' things ca'd wives and weaus 
Wad muve the very hearts o' staues ! 



TO THE OWL-By John M'Creddie*. 

Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth. 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? 

Is it some blast that gathers in the nprth, 
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r ? 

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, 
And leave thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn? 

Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? 

Shut out, lone birds, from all the feather'd train. 
To tell thy sorrows to the unheeding gloom ; 

No fritnd to pity when thou dost complain, 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home 

Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain. 
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : 

Suig on, sad mourner ' to the night complain. 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek. 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break i 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? 

Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet, 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there . 

* Burns sometimes wrote poems in the old bal- 
lad style, which, for reasons best known to himself, 
he gave to the world as songs of the olden time. 
That famous soldier's song in particular, first print- 
ed in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, General Cori'espon^ 
de?ice, No. LX, beginning 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A sei-vice to my bonuie lassie ; 

has been pronounced by some of our best lining po- 
ets, an Ininiitnhle rellque of some ancient minstrel ! 
Yet 1 have discovered it to be the actual produc- 
tion of Burns himself. The ballad of Auld long 
syne was also introduced in this ambiguous man- 
ner, though there exist proofs that the two best 
stanzas of it are indisputably his ; hence there 
are strong grounds for believing this poem also to 
be his production, notwithstanding the evidence to 
the contrary. It was found among his MSS. in 
his 0TV71 hand writing, with occasional interlinea' 
tions, such as occur in all his primitive effusions. 
It is worthy of his muse ; but it is more in the 
style of Gray or Collins. 

Should there, however, be a real author of the 
name oi' John M'-Creddie, he will not be displeased 
at the publication of his poem, when he recollects 
that it had obtained the notice of Bnr7is, and had 
undergone his correciion. E. 



HELIQUES. 



i37 



That spring's gay notes, unskilPd, thou canst 
repeat ; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day 

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
thee; 

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome, 
While the gray walls and desert solitudes 

Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 

There hooting, I will list more pleas'd to thee, 
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery. 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF 
LORD G. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit, G , and find 

^ome narrow, dirty, dungeon cave^ 



The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE SAME. 



And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For b. auttous. hapli ss Mary : 
B ut Scot wuh Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or, were more in fury seen, sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job— 

Who should be Facultifs Dean, sir. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the first was uumber'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And wan his heart's desire ; 
Which shews that heaven can boil the potj 

Though the devil p— s in the fire. 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d' ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob^s purblind mental vision : 
Nay, Bobbt/s mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the angel met 

That met the ass of Balaam. 



No Stewart art thou, G ■ , 
The Stewarts all wei-e brave ; 

Besides, tl»e Stewarts were but fools;, 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON THE SAME. 

Briglit ran thy line, O, G .. 

Thro' many a far-fani'd sire! 
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way. 

So ended in a mire. 



ON THE SAME. 

On the author being threatened with his resenti 
ment. 

Spare me thy vengeance, G ■ - » 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy band. 

For thou hast none to give. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A new ballad. 

Tune~The Dragon of Wantley. 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 
That Scot to Scot did carry : 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION' 



Tune— Gillicraukie, 



LORD A- 



-TE. 



He clench'd his ijamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint* it ; 
He gaped tor 't, he gaped for 't, 

He t'aad it was awa. man ; 
But what his common sense come short, 

He eked out wi' law, man, 

Mr. ER-NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee. 

Then open"d out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gatheruig storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Hulf-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 

* TjTif-lost. 



I 



438 



RELIQUES. 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN, 

(The person to ivhom his poem on shooting the par- 
tridge is addressed, ivltile Ranken occupied the 
farm of Adainhill, in Ayrshire.) 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A niixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter. 
To him that wintles* in a halter : 
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches, 
He mutter's glow'rin at the bitches, 
By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mong the sp'ritnal core present them, 
"Without, at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this d— — d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L— d God ! (quoth he) I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i' faith," 
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breatht. 



Oft hearing that there -was falsehood i7i the 
Rev. Dr. B ■ -s very looks. 

That there is falsehood in his looks, 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



I will fight France with you, Dumourier,— 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier:— 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

'Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt— Dumourier*. 



ELEGY 

ON THE YEAR 1788. 

A Sketch. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die— for that they're born 
But Oh ! prodigious to reflect ! 
A towmontf, sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluddie devil, 
But to the hen-biiiis unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire, 

Here lie Willie M— hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schulin of your weans; 

For clever Dells he'll mak 'em ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER, 

(A Parody on Robin Adair.) 

You're Avelcorae to despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier, 
How does Dampiere do ? 
Ay, and Bournonville too ? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dumou- 
rier ? 

* The word wintle denotes sudden and involun- 
tarj- motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it 
is here applied, it may be admirably translated, by 
the vulgar London expression, of dancing upon 
nothing. 

t The first thought of this poem seems to have 
been suggested by Falstaff's account of his i-agged 
recruits passing through Coventry. 

" I'll not march through Coventry with them, 
that's flat 1" 



Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yourselves, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'ei\, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and daviely they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does ci-y. 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten di-y. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no o'er auld, I hope, to learn ! 

* It is almost needless to obsei-ve, that the song 
of Robin Adair begins thus :— 

You'i'e welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair ; 

You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair. 

How does Johnny Mackerell do ? 

Ay, and Luke Gardener too ? 

Wliy did they not come along with you, Robin 

Adair ? 
t A toivmont—a, twelvemonth. 



RELiqUES. 



i39 



Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now hast got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd regent^ 
But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As muckle better as you can. 
January 1, 1789, 



} 



VERSES, 

IVritten under the portrait of Fergusson, the poet, 
in a copy of that aitthor''s -works presented to a 
young Lady in Edinburgh, Match I9th, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure J 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune; 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 



With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures •? 

* This apostrophe to Fergusson, bears a striking 
affinity to one in Burns's poems. See p. 274. 

O Fergusson .' thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's di*y musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Te E''nbrugh gentry I 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry ! 

This was written before Burns visited the Scot- 
tish capital. Even without a poet's susceptibility 
we may feel how the prophetic parallel of Fergus- 
son's case with his own must have pressed on the 
memory of our bard, when he paid his second tri- 
bute of affection to his elder brother in misfortune. 

K, 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



H kk 



SONGS, &c. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan Banks, with temperate ray, 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 
Oh banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh sti-eams v hose murmurs still I hear] 
All, all jny hojjes of bliss reside 
"Wliere Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest f 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and tlien we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge theCj 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



And she, in simple beauty drest, 
"Whose image lives within my breast ; 
"Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye ; 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers i-ecline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ? 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 

Ye lavish woods that wave around, 

And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 

Which sweetly winds so far below ! 

What seci-et charm to mem'ry brings 

All that on Evan's border springs ; 

Sweet banks ] ye bloom by Mary's side ; 

Blest stream I she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 

Atone for years in absence lost ? 

Return, ye moments of delight. 

With richer treasures bless my sight I 

Swift from this desert let me part. 

And fly to meet a kindred heart I 

Nor more may ought my steps divide 

From tliat dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



SONG. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me« 



SONG. 

Tatr'iotic— unfinished. 

Here's a health to tliem that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish gude luck to our cauSP; 

May never gude luck be their fa'* ! 

It's gude to be merry and wise, 

It's gude to be honest and true, 

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' tlie claD; 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyi*anny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 

Here's freedom to him, that wad read. 

Here's freedom to him, that wad write .' 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be 

heard. 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, 

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw i 



I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy: 
But to see her, Mas to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
Never met— or never parted, 
We had ne'er been brokca-hcarted. 



SONG. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 
An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 

♦ Fa'-lot. 



444 



RELlCiUES. 



By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 
The birdies flit on wanton wing. 

To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 
There wi' my Mra-y let me flee, 

There catch her ilka glance of love, 
The boiinie blink a' Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's walth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna g\e me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e J 



THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 

O how can I be biythe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

"When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 



But I look to the west, when I gae to rest. 

That happy my di-eams and my slumbers maybe; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



LINES ON A PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a wandering ae morning in spring. 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing, 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say, 
There's nae life like the ploughman in the monik 

o' sweet May. 
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her 

nest, 
And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast*. 
And wi' the meriy ploughman she'll whistle an4 

sing. 
And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 



It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 

But aye the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My atber pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disowit'd me a'; 

But I hae ane will lak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me. 

And silken snoods* he gave metwa; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken-shaw : 

And my sweet babie will he born, 
And he'n come hame that's far awaf. 



SONGj. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 



* Ribbands for binding the hair. 

f I have heard the country girls, in the Merse 
snd Teviotdale, sing a song, the first stanza of 
which greatly resembles the opening of this. 

O how can I be blj'the or glad. 

Or in my mind contented be, 
When he's far aff that I love best. 

And banish'd frae my company. E. 

% Of this exquisite ballad the last verse only is 
printed in Dr. Currie's edition.— He did not know 
that the oi»eiung stanza existed. 



I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 
And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess^ 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she my fairest, faithfu' lass. 
And stownlinsf we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree. 

When trystin-tim( 4 draws near again; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 



WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married— spier nue mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

* It is phasing to mark those touches of sympa- 
thy which show the sons of geaius to be of one 
kindred.— In the following passage, from the poenn 
of liis countryman, the same figure is illustrated 
with characteristic simplicity ; and never were the 
tender and the sublime of poetry more happily 
united, nor a more aifectionate tribute paid to the 
memory of Burns. 

" Thou, simple bird, 

Of all the vocal quire, dwell'st in a home 
The humblest; yet thy morning song ascends 
Nearest to Heaven ;— sweet emblem of his song*, 
Who sung thee wakening by the daisy's side! 

Gra/tn7ne's Birds of ScoilaTid, vol. ii. p. 4. 

t Stowulins— By stealth. 

i Tri/icin-time— The time of appointment* 

* Burns. 



RELIQUES. 



445 



Meg was meek, and Mep Wfts mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child— 
—Wiser ineu than me's beguil'd ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, mj Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

Wha I wish were maggot's meat, 

Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 

I could write— but Meg maun see't— 

Whistle o'er the lave o'c 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud*, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bounie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma ; 
An' aye my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An' aye the nigh, comes round again. 

When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As laug's he has breath to draw. 



M'PHERSOX'S FAREWEL. 

Farewel ye dungeons, dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie .' 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae rantingfy, sae rvantonly, 

Sae dnuntingly gacd he ; 
He plai/d a spring and danced it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?— 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingUj, ^c. 

Untie these bands from off my handsf. 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, ^c. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 
I die by treacherie : 



* The gaud— ax the plough, 
t See the 2d verse of the ballad gf Hughie Gra- 
ham, p. 397. 



It burns my heart I must depart, 
And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly^ <irc. 

Now farewe! light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die • 

Sae rantingly, eirc. 



SONG. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend J 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man :— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not aye when sought, man- 



SONG. 

Tune— Braes o' Balquhidder. 

/ kiss thee yet, yet. 

All* IHl kiss thee o'er again. 
An'' Pll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 
I ever mair defy them, O ; 

Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 

ril kiss thee, &c. 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 

ril kiss thee, &c. 

And by thy e'en sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never, O ! 
ru kiss thee, &c. 



SONG*. 

Tune— If he be a Butcher neat and trim. 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face. 

And the glanciu' of her sparklin' e'en. 



* This song was an early production. It was 
recovered by the editor from the oral communica- 
tion of a lady residing at Glasgow, whom the bard 
ill euriy life affecuouately admired. 



446 



RELIQUES. 



She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's stately like yon youtliful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy moi-n ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her looks are like the sportive Iamb, 
When fiow'ry May adonis the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain side at e'en, 

When fiow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her forehead's like the show'iy bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene, 

And gild the distant mountains' brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her voice is like theev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe. 
That sunny walls from borcas screen, 

They tempt the taste and cliarm the sights 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
j\n' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phcebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in every grace, 
And chiefly in her sparldin' e'en. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e; 
J-ang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
I'^irsaken and friendless my burdei» I bear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my car, 

♦ 
I.ove, thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved : 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel by its thvobbings will soon be at rest. 



O if I were, Mhere happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green ; 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e. 



FRAGIVIENT. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to clii g. 
And round that neck entwine her • 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou I 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.— 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



FRAGMENT. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree ; 

Now every thing is glad while I am very sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running 
clear, 
May I'.ave charms for the linnet or bee ; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little heax'ts 
at rest. 
But my true love is parted from me. 



SONG. 

Tune— Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw ua' ; 
Testreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness, 

Rejoicing o'er his manna. 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 
Frae Indus to Savannah ! 

Gie me within my straining grasp 
The melting form of Anna. 



RELiqUES. 



U7 



There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empress or ?ultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk jtar gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars w ithdraw a' : 
And bi'ing an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



HUNTING SONG. 

/ red you beware at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawii, 
Our lads gaod a hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bounie moor-hen. 

I'red you Onvare at the httnting, young men ; 
I red you beiimre at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak some on the ■ruing, and some an they springs 
But cannily steal on a bonnic inoor-heiu 



SONG*. 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " auld mahoun. 
We wish you luck o' he prize, man. 

" WeUl mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
WeUl dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil^ 
That daiic^d awa rvV the exciseman. 

" There's threesome reels, and foui'some reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was— the Deil's awa wi' the exciseman. 

" ire''ll mak our maut, «^c." 



Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 

bells. 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring, 
And, O 1 as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
/ 7'ed, &c. 

Auld Phcebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill; 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays Avhere she bask'd on the brae~ 
His rays were oiltshone, and but mark'd where she 
lay. 

/ red, <iyc. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
Tlie best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as tlu! fairest she sat in tlieir sight, 
Then, whirr J she was over, a mile at a flight. ' 
/ red, &c. 



SONG. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 



Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fail". 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless. 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breatiiing in the breeze that fans her. 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angeis, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my homef. 



* At a meeting of his brother excisemen in Dum- 
fries, Burns, being called upon for a song, handed 
these verses extempore to the president, written on 
the back of a letter. 

t Probably written on Highland ISIary, on the 
eve of the poet's departure to the West Indies. 



Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the nioriiing. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning: 
Her eyes outsJiine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer die has grac'd tliem. 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste thezn: 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting. 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune loveiy Peggy's foe. 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage wiJitcr. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning pow'rs to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grijjs in xuin, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 



44S 



REHqUES. 



Ye pow'rs of honour, lore, and truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her; 
Inspire the hig-hly favour'il youth 

Thr <iestijiies iiitend her : 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in eacli bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom*. 



SONG. 

Tune— The King of France, he rade a Race« 

Amang the trees wliere humming bees 
At buds and flowers wei-e hinging', O, 

* This was one of the poet's earliest composi- 
tions. It is copied from a MS. book, whieh he 
had before his tint publieaiien. 



Auld Calej^on drew out her drone. 
And to her pipe was singing, O ; 

'Twas pibroch*, sang, strathspey, or reels, 
She dirl'd them atf fu' clearly, O, 

When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. 
That dang her tapsalteerie, O.— 

Their canon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O, 
The hungi-y bike did scrape and pipe 

'Till we were wae and weary. O ;— 
But a royal ghast. wha ance was eas'd 

A prisoner aughteeu year awa. 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north, 

Ihat dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



* Pihroch- 
the bagpipe. 



■A Highland war song, adapted t« 



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